The Shattered Rose

by Jo Beverley

  Her fingers made a small, nervously reassuring movement against his tight chest. "Nor have I, but I know what bit goes where."

  "So do I." But he didn't know when, or how....

  Her hand moved down like a trickle of fire and found the source of his anguish and hopes.

  He gasped.

  So did she.

  "I didn't expect it to be quite so hard," she said. But instead of shrinking away in maidenly modesty, she pushed the covers back to look, fingers testing him. He had to drag her hand away before he exploded. They made a little fight of it and ended up face-to-face, looking at each other—it seemed—for the first time.

  "Don't, Jehanne."

  "Does it hurt?"

  "Yes. But it's not that—"

  "Then use it."

  Naked beneath him, veins visible beneath her fine skin, she seemed impossibly fragile. "I'm afraid I'll hurt you."

  "You're supposed to."

  "I don't want to hurt you." He tried to move away, but she held him with hands and legs, reminding him that she wasn't fragile at all.

  "Don't be afraid. My nurse told me,"—she began to pinken in a way he found both fascinating and immensely desirable—"she said it would go easier if I was ready, and if I was ready I'd be creamy...." Her voice dropped to a whisper and her cheeks turned full red. "I've been ready for weeks, Galeran, and I'm... I'm ready now."

  She took his hand and guided it between her legs to creamy, hot folds, proving the truth of her words, opening herself, easing under him....

  His suddenly mindless body followed his hand like a plow after the team, finding her, broaching her, filling her, using her.

  He had never expected it to be like that—connected to his gropings with the maids as an inferno is connected to a candle flame; connected even to the times he'd relieved himself as a hearth fire is to wildfire.

  He collapsed over her when he was done, and she pushed at him, gasping, "Galeran, I can't breathe!"

  He moved away hastily. "I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?" Then, seeing the answer in her face, he added, "If I did, it was your fault."

  "My fault?"

  "I could have waited if you hadn't been so bold."

  "It wouldn't have mattered how long you waited," she snapped. "It is the nature of men to rut, and the fate of women to bleed."

  He tried awkwardly to comfort her. "Now that you're a virgin no longer, it won't hurt again."

  "How would you know?" With that, she turned away.

  So, despite the fact that he would have liked to repeat the wonderful exercise, he turned the other way and eventually went to sleep.

  The next day the sheet was displayed to confirm their act. Galeran was congratulated as if he had defeated a dragon, and Jehanne was fussed over as if she'd been injured.

  Which he supposed she had been.

  Despite male approval, he felt rather miserable. Presumably none of the men, especially Fulk, knew how violently he had taken Jehanne and that she was unhappy about it.

  The only thing to do was refrain from repeating the act until she was healed. But when would that be?

  When they retired to bed the next night, he asked if she still hurt. "Only a little," she said in a resigned tone that killed any desire he felt.

  On the other hand, he was highly frustrated. He didn't want to inflict himself upon an unwilling and wounded wife, but having tasted sex, he wanted more. He briefly thought of the obliging maids, but that wouldn't do.

  The next night he asked again if she still hurt, and she said, "No." With a sigh of relief he entered her and found the pleasure he longed for, remembering this time to support his weight himself. But even in his climax he was more aware and knew that Jehanne was unhappy.

  Afterward, he gathered her into his arms. "What is it, sweeting? What do you want?"

  He thought she wouldn't answer, but then she said, "I want what you have."

  "A cock?" he asked in genuine bewilderment.

  She thumped his shoulder with her fist. "No, you dolt. The pleasure! Women do have it, I know they do. I can feel it, but it doesn't..." And there were tears in her eyes, the first he'd ever seen there.

  He rocked her helplessly. "I'm sorry, love. We'll find it."

  Perhaps it was instinct, or perhaps snippets of half-understood gossip, or perhaps even his times with the maids, but he put his hand to her left breast and immediately felt her response. "This might help?"

  "It might."

  He stroked and played with it, finding pleasure for himself in the doing, and in the tightening of her small pink nipple. Then he lowered his head and kissed it.

  "Yes," she whispered, so he kept on kissing and licking.

  After a little while, she said, "Perhaps if you sucked on it..."

  So he did, with great willingness, finding that her pleasuring became submerged in his greedy own. She didn't seem to mind that his gentle sucking became more thorough, and though she frowned more than she smiled, he sensed that he was doing something right.

  His control could not last forever, but when he had to enter her he could tell she was more attuned to him. Because it was the second time that night he was in no hurry, and was able to try to act as she wanted, continuing the pleasuring of her breasts between deep kisses.

  Afterward she appeared happy, but he didn't think she'd found what he found. He secretly wondered whether women did experience the same release, but he certainly had no problem with trying.

  Since neither of them knew precisely what they sought, it took them some weeks and a great deal of enjoyable exploration to find it, but when they did, there had been no mistaking it.

  Jehanne left teeth and nail marks on his skin, and her noises made him think she was dying—until he tried to stop and she threatened him with hell if he did.

  Afterward, she lay there as stunned as he had been his first time. "Galeran..."

  "Hmmm?" He smugly stroked her now very familiar body.

  "I liked that."

  "Strange. I never would have guessed."

  * * *

  Despite their harmony in bed, life hadn't been completely peaceful. Jehanne had strong opinions on every subject and expressed them, whereas Galeran, in his youthful arrogance, believed that his was the ultimate word after Fulk's. They always ended their quarrels in laughter and in lovemaking, however, happily exploring the depth and breadth of their n-bodies' pleasures.

  Until eventually the shadow of barrenness fell over them.

  Fulk was dead by then, and they were lord and lady of their domain. Clever planning, efficiency, and hard work were making Heywood into a prosperous estate. Galeran had completed Fulk's project of building a stone wall around the bailey to replace the wooden palisade. The keep was painted white outside and hung with rich woolen cloths inside, all woven and dyed by Jehanne and her women.

  The days were pleasantly full of productive work, and in the evenings the household enjoyed music, storytelling, and the occasional wandering entertainer.

  Everything was perfect, except that there was no heir to all this, and people were beginning to whisper that there never would be.

  Worse, people were beginning to whisper that there was no heir because the Lady Jehanne did not behave as a proper lady should. She was too bold, too active. That was why no child could hold inside her womb.

  Galeran told her it was nonsense, that serf women worked morn till night and carried one babe after another—but Jehanne began to change. She rested every day, she never lifted anything heavy, and she refused to ride at more than a walk.

  The next old wives' tale was that sour moods and anger could kill a babe, so she did her best to control her temper. Galeran found her struggle to change her nature agonizing, and sometimes teased her just to raise the spirit he so loved.

  After the quarrel, however, there would be no laughter or lovemaking. Instead, Jehanne would weep and accuse him of not wanting a child at all so he, too, tried to create an environment of honey-sweetness.

  Then, because
of yet more advice, she refused to make love except lying underneath him.

  When a rumor started that Jehanne was using evil tricks to prevent conception, all Galeran's frustrated rage erupted and he whipped one woman he heard gossiping about it. It wasn't wise, for it just turned everyone's attention to the problem.

  Night after night he told Jehanne that he didn't care if she was barren, and it was the truth. He wanted children, yes, particularly a son, but not above all else. More than any child, he wanted his bold, strong, clever wife back.

  And every month, she wept.

  He held her close one day when her bleeding had started, rocking her. "It doesn't matter, dearling. It doesn't matter. Will already has two sons. Little Gil can have Heywood."

  "I want a child." It was said fiercely, not piteously.

  "Then we can find a child for you to raise. A daughter."

  She pushed away from him. "I want a child in me, you stupid man! It's a hunger. I can't bear it!"

  "It's God's will, Jehanne."

  "Then God's will must be changed."

  And being Jehanne, she assaulted heaven as if it were a fortress, firing endowments and gold crucifixes, dispatching battalions of litanies and masses. And every month the bleeding announced failure and she huddled alone in her misery.

  Or hit out. The castle people learned to walk carefully around her, and it was at such a time that she'd broken the rose. He'd not asked whether it had been a complete accident or a blind act of rage, just comforted her, then done his best to put the pieces together again.

  But the pieces of their life wouldn't go back together. In fact, matters just grew worse.

  A priest told her that a woman's sexual excitement killed the seed, and so the only lovemaking she would accept was brief and without attention to her needs. At his slightest caress she would seize his hand and say, "No. Not until there is a child."

  Since he did not believe there ever would be a child, it seemed they were trapped like flies in a spider web of frustration.

  The first call to liberate the shrines of the Holy Land had come and gone before matters reached this dire state. Galeran hardly noticed, for the venture hadn't found much favor in King William Rufus's England. Rufus dismissed most priestly matters out of hand and had no intention of encouraging his best fighting men to travel to Outremer.

  Late the next year, however, news began to trickle back of successes. It seemed the Christian armies would actually reach the Holy City and liberate it, and some men planned to take ship direct to Palestine. They could be there in a few months and with luck take part in the great battle.

  Galeran was too involved with personal matters to be entranced by that adventure until Jehanne urged it. Yet another helpful priest—this time a wandering preacher trying to stir interest in the crusade—had suggested that such noble service might be the weapon to breach the walls.

  "It hardly seems the way to get with child," Galeran pointed out, "for us to separate for years."

  Instead of arguing, Jehanne turned away. "I thought you might be relieved to go."

  "Why would you think that?"

  "I know I've become a misery, that I've been demanding—"

  "You can't imagine that I mind your demands."

  She turned to look him straight in the eye. "Can't I?"

  He sighed. "It's not the frequency I mind, Jehanne, but the desperation. When did we last laugh as we loved?"

  "I think I've forgotten how."

  He wanted to suggest that she relearn, that they forget about children, but he might as well suggest she forget to breathe. "So you think God wants my sword in Jerusalem."

  He couldn't make himself sound enthusiastic, for though he enjoyed martial exercises, he'd never found pleasure in killing. He'd often given thanks for living in quite peaceful times.

  She touched him then, lightly on his arm. "I don't like the thought either. Asking you to leave, Galeran, is like cutting off my hand."

  And thus it showed the depth of her need. He took her in his arms. "It surely is a noble service to make the holy places safe for pilgrims. All Christians should lend their strength. But we cannot assume that God will repay us as we wish."

  "He should, for it will be a horrible sacrifice." She looked up at him, and it was almost like the old Jehanne again, the one who had picked up his sword to face a boar. "If this doesn't work, Galeran, I'm going to convert to Mahomet's religion!"

  He laughed, but he suspected it wasn't far from the truth. If the God of the Infidels promised Jehanne a child, she would kneel to Him.

  * * *

  They traveled to London to join the other Crusaders, escorted by Lord William and Jehanne's uncle, Hubert of Burstock. Hubert's second son, Hugh, also intended to take the cross, but solely out of ambition for glory and land.

  The vow was the same, though, no matter what the motive—to take the Holy City of Jerusalem or die in the attempt, and not to turn back before that goal was reached.

  Galeran made an additional silent vow—that he would stay faithful to his wife. He didn't think it would be hard, for he'd never lain with a woman other than Jehanne, and never wanted to. In view of their cause, though, for him to waste his seed on whores would surely be wicked.

  As was ordered by the Pope, Jehanne stepped forward to attest that she agreed to her husband going so far away for so long. Galeran left all his affairs in his wife's capable hands, subject only to the advice of a disapproving Lord William.

  Then they spent one last night together, a night much closer to their early joyous ones than any they had experienced recently.

  A night that had resulted in a son.

  God truly was good.

  Despite present circumstances, Galeran still believed that, and sitting in the dark woods, he lowered his head to pray.

  * * *

  It was Raoul who woke him.

  In the still, gray dawn, Galeran stretched painfully, chilled through and almost set into the awkward position he'd slept in. Sleeping in mail hadn't helped. His flesh was probably permanently indented.

  "Trying to kill yourself?" Raoul asked rather testily, offering a flagon of hot spiced cider.

  Galeran wrapped his cold hands around it gratefully and sipped. "I don't want to die."

  "Good." Raoul had brought freshly cooked pork and warm bread, and passed some over. "I must say, your family eats well on campaign."

  "My father always liked his comforts."

  They ate in silence for a while, then Raoul tossed a bone into the misty bushes. "The castle's still shut tight, and it'll be first light soon. What are you going to do when she defies you?"

  "First light is hard to define. Jehanne will open at the last moment."

  "Why would she let you in? She must know it'll go hard with her, and your castle could hold for a long time. That's a fine wall around it. What's more, they might expect outside help. I gather this Raymond of Lowick has the ear of the local bishop, who's a man in favor with the king."

  Galeran looked up at that. "That certainly makes the situation interesting."

  Raoul snorted. "Interesting! It's hardly lacking in interest without it. God's breath, Galeran, can't you see the danger here? Your personal affairs might become entangled with those of royalty. Your father's a worried man."

  Galeran pushed to his feet and brushed crumbs off his braies. It was a relief to debate a simple political tangle. "I doubt the king will get involved. We're too far north. It's always dangerous for a king of England to leave the south untended. Look what happened to Harold—"

  "The bishop could act on his own," Raoul interrupted. "Apparently this Ranulph Flambard—"

  "Flambard!" Now Galeran's attention was caught. "What's he doing as Bishop of Durham? When I left England, he wasn't even a priest!"

  "He's clearly risen with great speed. Perhaps as a reward for running the country for the last decade or so—ruthlessly, but profitably. So, what if this powerful and ruthless churchman, who seems to have the king in his pocket,
decides your wife's lover is in the right?"

  Galeran controlled the urge to make Raoul choke on the word lover. "My father's been a power in the north for thirty years, and he's faithfully served this king and his father before him. Why would Flambard or Rufus tangle with Brome over this kind of matter?"

  "If you have to take the castle by force..."

  "I won't have to."

  Even in the misty grayness, Galeran could see his friend frown. "You really think she'll open the gates?"

  "Yes."

  "Why, in the name of the Cross?"

  "Because it's right."

  Raoul let out a snort of disbelief. "Women don't think of right and wrong."

  "Jehanne does." Galeran fervently hoped it was still true. "But if you don't like that argument, what about this? If Jehanne doesn't see it that way, the garrison will. They are local men who know me. Most have sworn their oath to me."

  Raoul thought about that, then nodded. "Well, that makes sense at least. I suppose with word of your death passing by, your men had little choice other than to obey your lady since you left her in control. Even if she brought in another man, and—" Raoul looked at Galeran and then occupied his mouth in draining the last of his cider instead of talking.

  "Very wise."

  "Christ's crown," Raoul exclaimed, "you can't pretend she's innocent! Not with a babe at the breast."

  "No, I don't suppose I can."

  Raoul opened his mouth, then shut it. "What are you going to do?"

  "Want more pork?"

  Raoul shook his head, both to the offer and at the situation. Suddenly, into the silence, a bird began to trill—the herald of the dawn chorus. Would Jehanne hear it and take it as the sign of first light?

  Galeran threw the remains of the meat into the brush and led the way back to the camp.

  Chapter 4

  His father's men were fed and armed, and the horses saddled. A battering ram stood ready beside a ballista that could hurl huge rocks at the walls. All was ready to batter his home to rubble. Galeran went into the tent, where his relatives waited, mailed and ready. His arrival caused a sudden silence.

  "I assume Lowick has few men of his own there," Galeran said.