The Shattered Rose

by Jo Beverley

  "It seems to me," she gasped, "that they are my weakest point. They surrender instantly!"

  "Point. Yes." And with a wicked grin he applied himself once more, drawing each nipple up high, and driving Aline down into a swirling, fevered pit.

  Then he laid her on the bed. When she opened dazed eyes, he was beside her. "But not your weakest point," he said, and slid his hand between her thighs. "Oh."

  "Oh, indeed. I did think you'd have remembered this, love."

  She remembered, indeed she did, and so did her body. It began to respond almost immediately, and she spread her thighs without any urging. "Come in to me. Now. I want you in me."

  "Soon, love, soon. In good time and proper order. I must make sure first that your defenses are completely disarmed...." He kissed her lips, her neck, her shoulders, sucked on her earlobes, and on both breasts, until she could hardly tell where the pleasure disarming her body came from.

  In the midst of impending chaos, Aline had a flash of clarity—that someday very soon she would learn more of these matters and drive him to disintegration just as he so easily did to her. Indeed, she was planning an ambush, but she didn't think he'd mind too much.

  For the moment it was sweet to surrender without fear to the undoubted touch of a master. His hand gentled as the moment came, drawing it out for her, then his lips sealed hers to catch her cries. Still joined at the mouth, he moved over her.

  "Now," he said against her lips, "now you are ready, little castle."

  He began to enter her.

  The first sensation was exquisite relief to her yearning flesh, but then came a pain and she couldn't help but stiffen against it.

  "Dig your nails in, love. Make me feel it too."

  Then he sealed her lips again and broke through her maidenhead in one stroke. Aline shouted into his mouth, and she dug her nails in as hard as she could. It was partly natural reaction, but she also had his words in mind. It seemed only fair that men share the pain.

  After a moment he released her lips and grinned. "As bad as that, eh?" He moved slightly within her. "Does that hurt?"

  She marveled at his control, for she could see the same tense desire in him as both lingered and gathered in her. "It's nothing. Go on. Please. Go on."

  "You are a pearl among women," he whispered, and began to relax his control, moving more strongly, then almost violently, in and out.

  It did hurt, and in places other than her torn membrane, but it was wonderful, too, both in her burning body, and in what she saw of him. She grasped his shoulders and raised her legs to lock them around him in an act of sheer, crude possession.

  He grimaced as he disintegrated choking out her name. She trembled, loving every moment of his surrender to her powers.

  Collapsing onto his side, he gathered her into his arms, nuzzling at her neck as she cherished his sweaty chest with her hand.

  "I think I'm finally conquered," she murmured. "Isn't it lovely?"

  "That's because you ambushed me after all. I'm your prisoner for all time."

  "Of course." She ran a hand smugly down over his wonderful body. "Isn't that the way it's supposed to be?"

  He rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him so her breasts were ready to flickering tongue. "I do hope so. I'm a very contented slave. Now, give me your commands. What do you wish me to do, O mistress mine?"

  Chapter 23

  Galeran approached Heywood this time at a more leisurely pace, though his mind was once more full of love-making. Tonight, in their new bed, he and Jehanne could make love as they had not done since his return, but with Jehanne by his side there was nothing to race toward.

  They'd lingered in London to see Aline and Raoul sail off to their new home. There had certainly been nothing muted about the new couple's happiness, and he hoped it lasted them all life long.

  When Jehanne was healed, they'd begun the slow journey north again, stopping at various places to visit relatives and cement alliances.

  There'd been sleeping quarters along the way that were suitable for lovemaking, but he and Jehanne had agreed to wait. It was like waiting for a wedding, for a new start. They'd start afresh in Heywood, where he had always pictured her.

  And now he saw Heywood, rising before him as it had during his dreams in the Holy Land. His home. Home of all he valued in the world.

  Lord William and his men had split off at Brome, and Hubert's party had separated in Hey Hamlet. Galeran rode up to Heywood with Jehanne by his side, and no army sat before his walls. This time, at his approach, the great gates opened to welcome the lord home, and his people cheered and smiled.

  Jehanne rode beside him, and deliberately, he carried Donata. There was no need to make announcements about what had happened in London, for the story would spread on its own. Everyone would know that Jehanne had suffered for her sin, and been forgiven.

  He still wished that had not occurred, but he knew it would make everything easier.

  All was restored.

  Wasn't it?

  Something in his heart denied it.

  He dismounted and, Jehanne at his side, entered his keep, where Jehanne took Donata away to be tended by the women. The dogs ran forward, and he greeted them, then took ale to rinse away the dust of the journey.

  It could not rinse away a lingering bitter taste.

  Jehanne returned to his side, once more the comfortable, efficient lady of her domain, the wife he had longed for through those arid years. Galeran looked around the hall, thinking that perhaps, in a way, everything was the better for their adventures, the more precious for almost having been lost.

  And yet...

  While she spoke to a servant about some minor problem, he wandered into the solar to look at the big new bed. This was what he'd fought for, wasn't it? His peaceful home, his beloved wife, his marriage bed. Idly he picked up an ornament, the ivory rose.

  The petal fell off.

  Then it hit him like the blow of an ax.

  His son.

  His son was dead.

  Sharp pain made him look at his hand. More white petals were shattered, now touched with red. His blood. Jerusalem.

  But the void that engulfed him was not Jerusalem. It was his lost child. His son was nothing. He had no memories—no picture in his mind of a smile, no memory of a babbling voice. No smell. No feel...

  For him, Gallot did not exist.

  No wonder he'd cut off all who'd tried to speak of the child. No wonder he'd wanted to kill Lowick. It was not so much for the adultery. It was for this. For knowing the son he did not.

  He heard Jehanne calling him, but he slipped away, down to kneel in the graveyard by the small stone.

  But there was nothing there except a name, nothing in his heart but an emptiness growing larger by the moment, threatening to swallow all the hard-won joy.

  A whisper of cloth and a hint of perfume warned him of Jehanne, but he didn't want her here at this moment. She had what he had not.

  She had a child in her mind to remember. Sinking to her knees beside him, she held out a roll of parchment. Courtesy made him take it, though he had no idea what it could be and even less interest. To take it, he had to put down the broken rose. He heard her gasp at the sight of the broken, bloodstained petals, but at this moment he couldn't care that she'd be saddened.

  He laid the pieces on the grave beside the bush that bore real roses. Jehanne had real roses. She had memories. He only had shattered ivory.

  Because it would be cruel to reject whatever she was offering, he hid his bitterness, untied the ribbon, and uncurled the sheets. A number of sheets with a long knotted string in the middle.

  He couldn't help thinking that she'd been extremely wasteful with parchment, but that he read the first words.

  On Saint Stephen's Day, in the Blessed Year of Our Lord, 1099, was born at Heywood Castle in Northumbria, Galeran, son of Galeran and Jehanne, his wife, lord and lady of this demesne...

  He looked at her, seeing tears glimmering in her anxious
eyes. "I had the scribe write it. I knew you were missing so much, and I wanted it for you, even though I never suspected..."

  Heart pounding, he read on.

  His length on the day of his birth is to the first knot in the string. All the women say he is a good length and will be a tall man. He breathed quickly and well and moved his bowels on the first day, and though the substance was unpleasant, the wise women say it is good.

  Galeran looked a question at her. "Brother Cyril thought it improper of me to record such things. But it is a strange matter they pass at first. Like something from the bottom of a pond, but sticky." Galeran counted the sheets. Five of them. "Is it all here?"

  "Everything I could think to relate. The bad as well as the good. Like the three nights he kept us all up when he was teething. Like the way he would bounce in time to a drum..." Her eyes were still searching his anxiously. "I didn't give it to you sooner because I wasn't sure..."

  "No. You were right. I wasn't ready. But now..." He had no words for what was in his heart. "Now... I thank you..." Suddenly unable to speak, he gathered her into his arms. "Thank you. Oh, God, thank you."

  She held him tight, stroking him. "In a way," she whispered, "I, too, never mourned him properly. It all whirled out of control so fast. If you will, perhaps we can read through this together. And weep together."

  He nodded his head against her shoulder, parchment crushed tight in his hand, and prayed that his son—now surely an angel in heaven—intercede for them. Surely they deserved happiness, and the gift to be of benefit to the world. And perhaps, if God was truly good, one day there would be another child, theirs to enjoy in peace and harmony.

  Later that night, after tears and laughter, with a picture of his son filling his heart, Galeran made love to his wife. Not as he had dreamed of on the way home from Jerusalem, in a healing blast of released need. Not as they had done since, trying to cobble the tattered fragments of their love together as best they could. But in wonder at each other, that what had been so good could become, through the crucible, a richer, deeper treasure.

  Epilogue

  Jouray, Guyenne, September 1103

  Aline went out of the fortified house that was her home, searching for Raoul, who was somewhere in the fields checking on the grape harvest. She carried little Hubert on her hip, though at just over a year, he was wriggling to get down.

  "In a little while, love. I want to find your father and tell him the news."

  She hurried down a path edged by flowering bushes. The number and richness of fruits and flowers here still astonished her. There were times when she longed for her bleaker homeland, but not so many. And even if she were homesick, she would never want to be anywhere but near Raoul. She just hoped peace continued so he'd never have to travel far from her.

  A silly thought for the wife of a warrior, and one she did not trouble him with except to scold when he injured himself practicing.

  As he had just the other day.

  She'd deliberately bound his arm so tight, he could hardly move it. He'd grumbled about that, but made it an excuse to lie passively beneath her last night while she inflicted her every whim upon him.

  Thinking about it, she chuckled, and Hubert chuckled too.

  "Papa!" Hubert called, pointing. The child had inherited his father's long sight, for there indeed sat Raoul on his horse, overseeing the workers, who were gathering the plump, juicy grapes into baskets.

  Some of the previous night's whims had to do with plump, juicy grapes. She did enjoy harvest time....

  Aline dragged her mind off such thoughts, or she'd be wanting to seduce her husband in the fields. Again. She'd done that more than once, and would have done it today if it weren't for the child.

  Raoul heard his son and waved. In moments he cantered over to them. "Trouble?"

  "The very opposite!" Aline waved the letter. "Jehanne was safe delivered of a son three weeks ago."

  He swung off his horse and took his son in his arms. "That is good news. Read it to me."

  Dearest cousin,

  I send you the best and happiest news, that we were blessed with a healthy son on St. Giles's Day. The labor went easily and he was born with the dawn. We have called him Henry, for the king had something to do with our happiness, and his favor could be useful one day. He is not very like Gallot, being dark-haired and -eyed as far as we can tell.

  Donata loves her little brother, and calls him Henny. Of course, she wants to hold him all the time, but she is too little yet to do so without supervision. She is bright and mischievous, and everyone says she is just like me at that age. I will have to teach her to think before she acts.

  All is peaceful here, God be praised, since the failure of Duke Robert's invasion, and King Henry has established firm law throughout the land. This spring his queen gave birth to their first child, so, God willing, England can look forward to peace and prosperity.

  I hope that soon you will travel with one of Raoul's family's ships to Stockton and visit us up here in the bleak north, for I long to see you again, and your child.

  Your devoted cousin, Jehanne of Heywood

  Hubert was increasingly restless, so Raoul put him down to explore. "God truly does seem to have smiled upon his people. There were times when I doubted Galeran and Jehanne would find their way again."

  "They had trust." Aline stepped over to wrap her arm around her husband's waist. "With trust, anything is possible. Have I told you I trust you?"

  He kissed her. "Every day, in every way. As I trust you." A wicked twinkle entered his eye, warning and exciting her. "In fact, I might trust you enough to let you tie me up."

  "Tie you up!" She stared at him, growing hot at the thought. "Er... is that a hint?"

  "Perhaps. Or perhaps it's a warning. Since you trust me. Why don't you go back to the house and plan your strategy while I sit and contemplate sweet, plump, juicy grapes?"

  Aline watched him ride away, even more tempted to ravish him in the fields, then picked up her son and hurried home, making plans, and very much looking forward to the coming night.

  The End

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  Page forward for a Special Author's Note

  followed by an excerpt from

  AN ARRANGED MARRIAGE

  The Company of Rogues

  Book One

  Author's Note

  First: What's true and what's not?

  The historical facts in this novel are as accurate as I could make them. However, I couldn't find any information about what happened in London in the early days of the reign of Henry I, so I made it up.

  Ranulph Flambard was a real person, however, and as far as I was able, realistically portrayed here. He rose from obscurity in the service of William the Conqueror, hitting the highest point of his career under William's son, William II (Rufus). Contemporary accounts of him are confusing, with some writers crediting him with charm and cleverness, and others with unmitigated evil. He surely was extremely clever, and probably needed charm to stay on the right side of the kings. It seems clear he was entirely without scruples, and avariciously ambitious.

  Under William Rufus, Flambard ended up virtually running the country and being extremely unpopular. There does seem to have been an attempt to kill him by capturing him and taking him out to sea. It's difficult to imagine how he avoided death, but as the story goes he talked his way out of a ship full of pirates and
armed enemies, so perhaps he did have a great deal of charm and cleverness!

  There's no record of when Flambard became a priest, but in 1099 Rufus made him Bishop of Durham. Though Canterbury, York, and London were the bishoprics of greatest religious importance, Durham held the most land—most of the north of England, in fact. Flambard was now a powerful baron. How infuriated he must have been when his royal patron so carelessly got killed only a year later.

  Henry Beauclerk, who, as I say in the book, wanted the Crown of England almost from the day of his birth, was quick to dissociate himself from his brother's most unpopular creation. He imprisoned Flambard in the Tower. Though contemporaries record the joy at this act, no one states the reason for the imprisonment, so in my story I've provided Henry with the excuse he must have needed. There's no indication in history that the bishop was beaten or harmed in any way.

  In late 1100 or early 1101, Flambard apparently got his guards drunk at a banquet, then escaped from the Tower by climbing down a rope smuggled in to him in a wine cask. (At times it's difficult not to admire Ranulph's style!) He fled to Normandy, to Henry's brother, Duke Robert, who promptly gave him great power, and Ranulph organized Robert's attempt to invade and seize the Crown of England.

  That attempt failed, however, and Ranulph began to woo Henry, soon achieving a pardon. Within a few years he was back in England, restored to his bishopric in Durham, and doubtless finding ways to squeeze money for the king. True to his promise in the book, however, Henry had broken the great power of the diocese of Durham, so it wasn't the prize it once was. Also, Henry was himself a shrewd and able administrator with his own hand-picked "household" of legal and financial experts, so Ranulph Flambard never regained the kind of power he had held under William Rufus. Flambard died in 1128.

  A note about literacy, since it's a subject I sometimes get letters about. This is a hotly debated topic, but I side with those who believe that many nobles in the Middle Ages could read after a fashion, women more than men. It was considered a suitable skill for women, but a potentially weakening one for fighting men.