The Shattered Rose

by Jo Beverley

His precious first day home.

  With a bitter laugh, he pushed away from the window. He'd have to put his insane, purposeless energy to use and hope activity would drown out half-formed images of a child he had never seen. A child all the people here could tell him of if he asked—

  Tears swelled in his chest, more agonizing than a wound....

  No. Not yet.

  He would not weep yet, for if he began, he was not sure he could stop.

  He headed for the door, but halted, looking at an ivory rose in its accustomed place on a small table against the wall. He had to believe it had some meaning for her. Had it sat there throughout his absence, even when she...?

  He picked it up, and the cracked petal tilted then fell off. Muttering a curse, he fumbled to push it back into the soft wax that held it in place. Then he froze, holding it in his hand, fighting the urge to crush it, even though the sharp edges would lacerate his hand.

  With a deep breath he put it down, even though the petal was crooked. The risks were too great.

  He went out to his great chair in the hall and summoned his officers to report on their management of his property during his absence. He didn't make much sense of it, but could tell Heywood had been well cared for.

  He couldn't help noticing the way they all looked at him, though. On the faces of some he detected a sneer that said they didn't think he had the balls to handle his sinful woman. That he'd forgive her without a twitch of protest.

  Some eyed him warily, however, as if expecting him to burst into berserker rage at any moment.

  Either could be right, which is why he'd hit her, to get someone on her side. Galeran's father had sent Will back to camp and Gilbert back to Brome, but he stayed in the keep, watching from a distance in case Galeran turned to violence again.

  And Galeran was glad there was someone to make sure he didn't.

  Chapter 5

  If he tried hard, a man could take a long time reviewing a two-year absence. What's more, the exercise could cram his mind so full of petty details there was no space for other things.

  Like a dead child...

  Like an unfaithful wife...

  Galeran tried very hard.

  Once his senior officers had been interviewed, he went, trailed by his dogs, to inspect all parts of the castle.

  He knew that no matter what had happened, Jehanne would have run the estate perfectly, but he went over all the records and discussed matters with every person of any importance.

  When he found himself discussing bluing with the head laundry woman, however, he knew he'd gone mad. He handled it well enough, until he saw the line of white baby-cloths hanging out to dry. Then he left the woman in mid-speech.

  He couldn't escape it, though. Now reminders of babies seemed to be everywhere.

  He came across the record of the cradle made for Gallot by the carpenter. He couldn't bring himself to ask whether the cuckoo was in that same lovingly crafted nest.

  A small pony chewed hay in the stable, the animal bought by Jehanne within weeks of Gallot's birth to be trained ready for him. If he'd lived, he might have been ready to sit on its back.

  In one ledger he saw the price of a small pair of shoes of soft leather, suitable for a child taking its first wavering steps.

  These things almost broke through Galeran's control, but he pushed them away and concentrated on practical matters—new pens for the animals, supplies of arrows, last year's corn yield.

  Not long after noon, Raoul, bearing bread, chicken, and wine, found him outside the walls near the pasture observing the mares in foal. "Your household is eating in the hall."

  "I'm not hungry."

  "Eat!" Raoul thrust a chicken leg into his hand. "Fainting won't solve any problems."

  Without appetite, Galeran pulled meat from the bone with his teeth. "Are you my official nursemaid?" But he was feeling all the silliness of his impulse to escape.

  "Just your friend."

  Galeran turned to lean on the fence, watching the healthy horses. One of his best mares was in foal to his father's newest and finest war-horse, or so he'd been told. The product could be exciting, but excitement seemed beyond him. "As a friend, then, what would you do in my situation?"

  Raoul gave a wry grin. "Go very slowly and keep out of the way of my wife. I think egg-laying must be fascinating."

  Galeran surprised himself by laughing. He returned to the castle with Raoul and went to investigate the welfare of the poultry.

  By evening he had achieved a certain balance. The sharp core of pain in his chest had not disappeared, but it had crusted over, possibly just because of the deadening effect of exhaustion.

  As he'd expected, everything in Heywood was in order. Even Lowick's labors had been efficient, probably because he thought he was looking after his own property. He'd not been much liked, though, and the joy at Galeran's return seemed genuine. That helped.

  Galeran had not asked anyone about Jehanne, but her presence had been unavoidable throughout the day, conveyed in casual but concerned comments. That told him the people here still cared about her, and he wanted that. He wanted her loved and cherished as she had always been.

  He wanted her protected against himself.

  He gained the impression that she had not been happy this past year, and welcomed that too. He could not have endured a picture of her glowing with radiance.

  When the sun began to move toward the horizon, Galeran decided he could at last allow himself rest and headed for the keep. He stopped dead in the middle of the bailey when it occurred to him that a thorough bath was necessary if he wasn't to foul any bed he slept in.

  Which brought the thought that Jehanne always bathed and shaved him.

  Without trying to analyze his motives, he sent the order that she prepare to do so.

  He then realized he was still in his mail. He must have looked ridiculous checking domestic matters in full mail, but he supposed he was going to look ridiculous no matter what he did. He went to the armory and had the smith help him out of the metal and quilted leather.

  It felt remarkably good to be free of the weight.

  When the hauberk was off and he was just in his filthy linen shirt and woolen braies, he stretched freely for the first time in days. "My skin is probably marked for life."

  "Skin recovers, Lord," said the smith, "which is more than can be said of mail." He looked the armor over with a grimace. "I fear you'll need new."

  "Probably. But cherish that. It's been to Jerusalem."

  The man's disgusted expression gave way to one of reverence, and he handled the rusty mail tenderly. "Aye, Lord, I will." He looked up almost shyly. "Does it glow, Lord? The Holy City?"

  Galeran sighed. "It's just a city, Cuthbert, with houses, inns, markets, and whores. It reminds us all that God came to earth and lived as a man, just like other men. I was in Bethlehem too, and it's just a village, not much different from Hey Hamlet."

  It was clear that Cuthbert didn't believe him, and even had doubts that Galeran had been to the Holy Land at all.

  People's beliefs were chancy things and hard to change.

  Some people believed Jehanne had killed her baby....

  Galeran took a deep breath and headed back toward the keep. He met Raoul at the base of the steps, and noticed his friend had clearly already availed himself of a bath.

  "Took your mail off at last, I see," Raoul remarked.

  "Believe it or not, nursemaid, I'd have taken it off hours ago if someone had suggested it. It had become like a second skin."

  "I assumed you were doing penance."

  "Why would I need to do penance?"

  "I never said you needed to. Your father ordered me to make sure you didn't murder your wife, and then went back to spend the night in his tent. Do you fancy a game of chess?"

  "No. I'm going to have a bath."

  Raoul wrinkled his nose. "You certainly need one."

  "And my wife is going to bathe me."

  "Oh-ho!"

 
; Galeran gave him a look, and Raoul assumed an innocent expression. "In that case, do I have your word you won't drown her?"

  "Yes. Go explore the maids here. I'm sure one will be to your taste. But don't interfere with Jehanne's women."

  "Sets strict standards, does she?" Then Raoul immediately threw up his hands. "Don't gut me. I apologize."

  "Jehanne is my wife and will be treated with respect. Complete respect."

  Raoul grimaced. "Galeran, at risk of my head, I have to say you can't just ignore what's happened. Even the people here, who seem to admire her all in all, expect her to suffer some retribution."

  "By the Cross and Nails, what do they want? That I tie her to a post in the bailey and flog her?"

  Raoul shrugged. "A good beating might clear the air. Then if you get rid of the bastard—"

  Galeran just walked by him and climbed the steps.

  God knows, but there was a part of him that thirsted for that beating just as much as the castle people and his brothers did. Probably most of Northumbria was waiting to hear Jehanne scream.

  But he couldn't do it.

  He could never do it.

  Nor could he imagine snatching Jehanne's child from her arms.

  As he reached the door to the hall, he suddenly realized that he didn't know whether it was a boy or a girl.

  He entered the large chamber and found it just as it had been most evenings of his life. Two of Jehanne's women sat in the window-light spinning and gossiping. They flashed him a look and spoke more quietly. Servants busied themselves putting up trestle tables for the evening meal, and a couple of men-at-arms sat at one dicing. Each person slid him a look, then concentrated on their own business.

  Each person expected violence.

  They'd be disappointed.

  He hoped.

  Would Jehanne have obeyed him and be prepared to bathe him? He thought she would. It was her duty, after all.

  Raoul's plans for the evening prompted other thoughts, thoughts of sex with Jehanne. Galeran searched his mind, wondering if that was his intent.

  Despite exhaustion, he was thinking of having sex with someone, or his body was. Approaching Heywood the previous day, he'd begun to release the tight control he'd kept on his desire, and like a stream undammed, it didn't seem possible to reverse the process.

  He realized that his body had been smoldering in desire all day, and the flames were now licking higher and hotter. A plump, saucy maid slid him a sly glance, and seeing she had his attention, rolled her hips in subtle invitation, wetting her lips with her tongue.

  Surely his vow no longer bound him. If one party broke a contract, the contract was void.

  But he did not burn for a woman.

  He burned for Jehanne.

  He turned away from the wench and crossed the hall toward the solar. Jehanne was his wife and still had a duty to serve his needs. More to the point, he had never truly desired any other woman and still didn't.

  He stopped dead when he saw the guard at the door to the solar. That could mean only that Jehanne was there and that his orders to guard her were being taken literally. But, he suddenly realized, he was going to present himself to her in a state of rampant erection.

  A moment's effort convinced him that willpower could not change anything, so he went to a nearby garde-robe and changed things physically. With images of Jehanne burning in his mind, and her but a few steps away, it was both satisfying and bitterly frustrating.

  He was, however, able to appear quite calm when he entered the solar.

  It was all painfully familiar.

  The large oak tub lined with thick linen cloths was half full of steaming, herb-scented water. Additional jugs of water, both hot and cold, stood ready. Drying cloths hung pristine white on a nearby rack, close enough to the brazier to be pleasantly warm when used.

  In other words, everything was perfectly in order, just as it always had been with Jehanne in command.

  She was awaiting him, dressed plainly now, her sleeves rolled up, and her hair bound under a scarf so it wouldn't get in the way. That was a shame. He'd quite like it to get in the way....

  Dissatisfied lust was glowing again in the cinders.

  How would she react if he said, "Get on the bed. I want to fuck you." He'd never said anything so crude to her in his life.

  How could he say "Come to bed. I want to make love to you?"

  How could he make love to a woman who loved another?

  Like a blow, he faced the question he'd hidden from all day. Did Jehanne love Lowick? Had she always, and merely made do with the husband forced on her? Did she wish Galeran dead so she could be with Lowick for all time? Lowick, after all, was taller, broader, more handsome....

  But how could a strong, clever woman love a man who wanted just her property?

  He realized he'd been standing in silence for an embarrassingly long time, and moved to strip off his stinking garments. He was not so far gone, anyway, as to attempt carnal intimacy in this foul state. Jehanne had always been very fastidious.

  For that reason, he didn't ask her to help him undress, and when he'd stripped, he opened the door and threw the clothes out into the hall. "Get someone to burn that lot," he told the guard.

  Then he turned back and caught Jehanne looking him over intently. It reminded him too sharply of that time in his chamber before they were married—the time she'd thrown his clothes out the window. There was no embarrassment in her face now, though, just a rather objective concern.

  "A few extra scars," he said.

  "And many extra bites. You must be infested. Get into the water." Her brisk tone was impersonal, but her eyes were not. He could not read them, though. Did she wish him dead?

  If she did, he thought he would rather be.

  As he eased into the tub, the sensation of hot, herb-scented water on his skin drew an involuntary sigh of delight from him. For the moment, other desires were suppressed and other pains forgotten.

  She began with his feet. "How long since you've had a bath?"

  He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Months. Though until the last week, I changed my underclothes regularly." He didn't say that he'd refused to stop for such comforts in Bruges because he was so eager to reach her. Perhaps she guessed, for she didn't pursue it.

  She scrubbed at his feet and pared the toenails, then worked up his legs. At times her fierce scrubbing bordered on pain, but he didn't complain. He knew she was just trying to make sure there were no unwanted inhabitants on his skin.

  She stopped at his thighs, though, and moved around to start on his arms.

  Galeran could almost fall asleep. Almost but not quite. This interlude was too precious to miss. If he let himself, he could imagine he was in the past and Jehanne was bathing him after a hard day's hunting.

  She had always been clean when she came to bathe him, for bathing had always been followed by lovemaking and she believed clean should go with clean. Was she clean now? If he'd thought, he would have asked the guard whether the Lady Jehanne had bathed today.

  Now his chest. "Thank goodness you don't have much hair here," she muttered. "I've picked off a dozen lice."

  He almost smiled. It was good to hear her scolding. But amusement faded. These pleasant moments weren't going to solve anything.

  Did he want to keep Jehanne as his wife?

  Oh, yes.

  Even if she loved Lowick?

  Yes.

  Was it wise to keep Jehanne as his wife?

  He didn't know.

  Was it possible to keep Jehanne as his wife after her open adultery, and suspicion of murder? The latter was surely untrue, but her unfaithfulness could not be ignored.

  Was he going to have to beat her to redeem her?

  If so, she was likely to go unredeemed. Of all the trials he had ever imagined facing in life, that one he shrank from. If he'd known how much he'd hate hitting her, he'd never have found the will to do it.

  She cleaned down his torso, but again stopped jus
t short of his genitals.

  "Lean forward."

  When he obeyed so she could get at his back, he saw the filthy scum on the water. "I'm sorry. I don't think you've ever had to deal with me in such a state."

  "If I mind, I can think of any number of reasons why I should be so afflicted."

  Trust Jehanne. Sometimes life would be more comfortable if she would avoid a confrontation or allow herself a polite lie.

  After a moment, she added. "Is any of this dirt from the Holy Land? If it is, we should preserve it and build a shrine."

  He couldn't tell if she was serious or not. "No. I did have a thorough bath in Constantinople. They take bathing seriously there. You'd like it." Head resting on his knees, he went on to describe the beautiful city, the ornate baths, and the sensual bathing rituals, realizing only when it was too late that this was talk for the Jehanne of his dreams, not for his adulterous wife.

  She stopped her cleansing and went to get the smaller bowl to wash his hair. "Shall I cut it?"

  "I'm sure it will make it easier."

  She used the sharp knife with skill to cut his hair quite short, shorter than was fashionable. The working of her fingers against his scalp was almost unbearably arousing. Then she soaped and washed it three times before combing it carefully and squashing some nits. "It's not too bad," she said. "A pennyroyal rinse should keep it free of pests. Shall I shave you, or do you want one of the men to do it?"

  He looked up at her. "If you were going to cut my throat, you'd have already done it."

  "They burn women who kill their husbands."

  He stared at her, trying to read meaning into the flat words, but then sighed and closed his eyes. "Yes. Shave me."

  As she used the sharp edge of the blade to scrape away his rough beard, he wondered how long he could live in this wasteland without cutting his own throat.

  At one point he thought he felt her fingers trace the scar down his chin, but she said nothing. Then she was wiping the soap away. "Stand up and I'll get the rinse water."

  He stood, finally irritated by her calm. "You've forgotten some bits of me."

  She turned sharply, almost at bay, and he knew she wasn't calm. But being Jehanne, she didn't back down. "The water's too dirty now. I'll rinse you first."