The King's Man

by Elizabeth Kingston

  She would wear red dragons. He had purchased it.

  “This for veil, and I will lend you my coronet of rubies. Is a small thing, but it will look very well with a gown from this fabric. The king and queen will be in attendance, you would not wish to seem beggarly.” Suzanna had regained her breath and used it to launch into plans for the gown and sigh over the silk.

  It would not do to draw attention to her Welsh pride by remarking on the dragons, but she could not look away until the draper said, as if it was a secret he shared with her, “My lord asked to see fabrics of red fit for a lady. This one did he choose from among them, and purchased it ere any other might. Many would, as it is very fine, my lady, but if you would desire to see others—”

  “No.” She cut him off sharply and forced herself to look away from it. “I could not choose better. What cloth think you best for my shift? Something cool for this summer weather.”

  In the end, Suzanna was a better judge, and so chose everything of consequence. Gwenllian offered to write out a receipt for burnet tonic and its uses, as well as many other such herbs as she knew of, if only Suzanna would agree to ensure this gown and two others were made ready in time for her departure to Morency. It was a fair exchange, except that Gwenllian had no talent in either drawing or describing the plants. But as Suzanna could not explain why she must have a separate night shift instead of simply wearing her undertunic for sleeping, they both were forced to make allowances for mystery. In this way, they passed the time while Gwenllian waited for word from her mother.

  But only eight days after she had sent the first messenger, she stood in the new gown while Suzanna affixed the barbette around her head and pinned the veil over her hair. Eight mornings of waking and wishing it were a dream. Eight days of whispering courtiers and wedding preparations, of drifting through gardens and feeling everything her life had been slipping through her grasp. Eight nights of irrationally feeling abandoned by her mother, now when she needed her most. Yet she knew that even riding hard through the rain-soaked countryside, eight days was barely enough to reach her mother.

  As Suzanna set the coronet – a simple gold and silver circlet studded with rubies and pearls – atop the white veil, she wondered aloud why Gwenllian’s hair was only long enough to fall barely past her shoulders. “I had never intended it would be seen,” she said quietly. She wondered how many other unwomanly things there were about her that she had not yet considered.

  She told herself that even her mother could not have prevented this wedding. There was no solution that did not jeopardize her brother’s future as heir, or place all her family under suspicion. In the last week, she had begun to think of it as an inevitable conclusion to all the years of bickering between their estates. Indeed it was a very good match, except that she would as soon face Morency in bloody battle as she would call him husband.

  “The king himself will give your hand to the devil, but if it please you I will bring you to the church.”

  It was Madog, standing in the doorway with a look more suited to war than to a wedding. She stood paralyzed, wanting nothing more than to rush in and embrace him but knowing that such a weakness would shame them both. The distance between them, he the battle-hardened comrade and she clad in the silks of a lady, was so unfathomable that tears pricked her eyes. Davydd was there too, looking at her uncertainly. No doubt he was awaiting some command from her. The thought of it caused her to stiffen her spine and regain her composure enough to say, “Is well that you did find suitable dress. My horse is made ready to leave for the journey to Morency on the morrow?”

  “Aye, Pennaeth Du,” nodded Davydd.

  “Consult you then with my husband, when I have one, to know the hour of our departure. There has been no word from Ruardean?”

  Madog shook his head. She wanted to ask so much more – if they had concealed her armor, if they had found a blacksmith to repair the broken tip of Madog’s long dagger – but she could not. She may never be able to speak of such things again.

  It was Suzanna’s chatter that pulled her from the despair of such thoughts. She admired the green of Davydd’s tunic and the fine belt Madog wore. Soon, they were surrounded by a party of musicians, and were walking to the church amidst their reveling. The minstrels were more of Suzanna’s cleverness: it covered the smallness of the bridal party by gathering people as they passed through the grounds. She walked flanked by Madog and Davydd, a grim center to this gay crowd, and was delivered to the door of the church where Morency awaited.

  It was easy from there, to say and do the things expected of her. It was only in the beginning, when the priest asked her if she wished this man to be her husband, that she hesitated. Obey, the priest said, and serve and esteem. She could not bring herself to say she wished it. She could not, until she felt King Edward’s stare burning her in the silence. It was at him she looked as she gave a tiny nod, then lowered her head and spoke her assent. After that, after the king took her hand and put it in her new husband’s grasp, she could even enter the church and hear mass with ease. She should have made a show of confessing herself, she knew. But there was little she disliked more than priests and church, so she had allowed herself that tiny bit of freedom yesterday.

  She watched Morency lower his head in prayer and remembered his fevered ravings so long ago, and wondered if she had married a very religious man. If he would compel her to daily mass and endless prayers, she could mouth the words easily enough, she supposed.

  The feast was predictably magnificent. She forced herself to pay strict attention to the dishes served, the amounts and how they were prepared, so that she would have some idea of how to plan a celebration. They were not even half way through the meal when she ended her attempt to estimate how much wine and ale had flowed into the hall. There was far too much to keep up. She cast an eye to Morency’s cup and saw he drank sparingly.

  “You do not find the wine pleasing, my lord?”

  He grimaced. “So full have I drunk these many nights that to drink more would make me sick, I think.”

  She almost laughed. She had only walked incessantly, and slept fitfully. “What privilege to be a man, who may drown his worries in drink.”

  He shrugged. He did seem weary, now that she took the time to look at him. “Your head aches,” she said.

  He turned fully to face her. “Aye,” he said with impatience.

  There was that sullen curve to his mouth, the one he had worn for nearly all their journey. She thought of her men, of desultory days in far-flung woods when tempers threatened to burst. “We shall send to the kitchen for a chicken.”

  This was met with a lift of his brow. “Chicken?”

  “Is a cure well known, to tie a chicken to the crown of your head or where ever it may ache, to fix the anus upon the afflicted place.”

  She held her face very still, but his expression was such a perfect stew of confusion, feigned courtesy, and growing disgust that she could not stop her mouth from quivering with mirth. He let out an incredulous laugh.

  “You would have me stink of dead chicken for our wedding celebration?”

  “Oh no.” She shook her head as she took a swallow of wine. “It must be a live chicken.”

  He was handsome as the devil when he laughed, even when he did put a hand to his temple. She bade a servant to go to the kitchens and return to her with fresh sage and chamomile, and a single leaf of valerian if there were any to be had.

  “I did not think you capable of humor,” he said as a soft white cheese drizzled in honey was placed before them.

  “Is a rare mood,” she admitted, watching his hands as he tore bread and spread cheese. She thought of nights around the fire with her men, their bawdy jokes as firelight lit their laughing faces. When the servant returned with the herbs, she pointed out Davydd and Madog where they sat across the hall. “Be sure they have mead, the best this house may offer.” They preferred it to ale.

  She plucked out a stray bit of gooseberry leaf from the handful o
f herbs and of long habit slid it into her sleeve for safekeeping. Morency saw her. “Is a cure for gravel,” she mumbled, and tipped the rest of the leaves into his cup.

  She watched him surreptitiously as the evening drew on and the music grew louder, and could see the pain ease in him as he drank. Every glance reminded her of what was to come and too soon the moment was here. The ladies of the court who were her equal in rank, those who had whispered and spurned her company, led her away to the chamber she was to share with him. They removed her veil and the coronet, her girdle and her shoes. When Suzanna lifted the robe above her head, Gwenllian caught her arm before she turned away and pressed the leaf into the girl’s hand. “A gooseberry leaf,” she murmured. “I will write you and explain its properties.”

  A grin spread across the girl’s face. “Shall I brush your hair?”

  Gwenllian nodded and sat to remove her stockings while the girl brushed hair that was hardly worth the effort. It did not spread out voluminous across her shoulders and tumble down her back. It was fine and hung limp and was wholly unremarkable. The other ladies spoke of their own wedding feasts and pressed her to eat sugared almonds and the candied peels of a Seville orange, to sweeten her breath. She said little beyond what courtesy demanded, and fixed her eyes on the small case in the corner that held her new gowns, ready for tomorrow’s journey to her new home.

  The men came, with Morency in a short linen tunic and the king and the priest raucous with drink. When at last the bed was blessed and they were both safely in it, the fire was banked and the party left them, leaving the echoes of their lewd comments and catcalls behind them.

  She had resolutely avoided thinking of this moment. Now that it was here, she thought she should have considered what best to say or do. They sat in a charged silence until he turned and extinguished the lone candle, then pulled the bed curtains closed.

  In the utter darkness, she could only hear his breath, feel his heat next to her. She heard him lay back on the bed and she did the same, pushing herself further under the coverlet and staring up, searching in the blackness above her for any light at all. All the long years of learning how to lead were evaporating, now, in this night air. Her men would follow Madog. Her armor would rust. She thought she should weep for it, but she had no talent for tears.

  Neither of them moved. The sound of music and merriment came faintly, as though from a great distance. They were married, and he was her husband. All the lands her mother had wanted for her, for thirteen long years, were hers now. And his. In the distance a hall full of strangers celebrated it, and in the darkness she reckoned with the reality of it. He would settle disputes among tenants and ride off to war, while she managed their household and birthed his children.

  The night air settled around them. It was impossible to imagine, a life with him.

  “Tell me true,” she said into the night, “why you were in Wales and not with your king.”

  She felt the resistance in him, heard the hesitation in his breath and knew the moment he would speak.

  “Alice came to me. In a dream.” He waited, but she held her tongue. “Her brother is at an abbey there in the wilds. I…” His voice trailed off.

  He had lain before her in the hut, burning, his eyes wild and desperate. Full well did she remember how he had calmed at her touch. How he looked at her as though she could deliver him from despair.

  “In your fever, you raved about an angel, and a lady.”

  She felt him tense beside her. “Haps it was madness. I thought it may be so, and I would have her brother’s thoughts of it.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  She should have waited to ask him in full daylight, so to see his face and examine it for lies. But here in the closed-up darkness, it felt like a confessional, like a place where he might say the truth of such things.

  “Why ask you this thing?” He did not sound angry or defensive, or sly as she might expect.

  “Is whispered in the court that you slayed Aymer’s wives.”

  He was silent for so long that she began to wonder if the vicious whispers of ladies might wound him, too.

  “Do you fear me?”

  She considered the previous ladies of Morency, who were only like all other women in the hands of men. She turned her head to face him, though she could not see him. “Such defenses as I have, they never possessed.”

  They returned to silence, and she turned her face back to the canopy overhead. In a while she thought he might be dropping to sleep, so regular was his breath. She lay there remembering his touch, high up on her leg. She closed her eyes to remember it more fully: the feel of air across her damp legs, his thumb pressed hard across her lips.

  But he did not move, and she pushed the memory back down. If she were a man, she thought it might be less difficult to banish it from her mind. It was said that women were possessed of a greater lust than men, but she had always doubted it until now. Likely he never thought of that day, or his mouth on hers. She could not know what thoughts he might dwell on. He had visions of dead women and angels. He had saved her in the woods, when the thief would have killed her. He wished to leave court immediately.

  She did not know his mind, in any matter. It was always this that robbed her of her balance when he was near, that she could never trust his intent or know the impulses on which he acted. She was accustomed to understanding men with a swiftness and ease born of long practice. She knew Madog’s mind as well as her own. King Edward’s intent was clear to her. But Ranulf of Morency – her husband – was hidden as though from a fog.

  “Wherefore did you have me wear red dragons today?” She murmured low, thinking him half-asleep.

  But he was not. She heard his head rustle the bed linen as he turned his head toward her.

  “It was the first cloth brought to me, and the pattern appeared as though by a divine hand. Pomegranates, and your dragons. It pleased me, to think Edward would see it and know we are not entirely biddable as he would compel us to be.” He paused, ridding himself of a rising anger in his voice. “Is a small thing, but I thought it would annoy him, and please you.”

  It was enough, to know this of his mind. Her hand found his in the darkness and held it fast. It was enough to know that though neither one of them would have wished for this match, and though they had little trust between them and too much strife and secrets and half-truths, they stood together in a world controlled by Edward.

  They lay there in the black of night, hands clasped. After countless minutes, she turned her face to his again and breathed the smell of him. She remembered the swell of muscle in his forearm as it had flexed under her urgent fingers, and felt the warmth spread out from the center of her. All her skin tingled, burning, the tips of her breasts aching. Her fingers tightened around his slightly as she thought of bringing their joined hands to her breast, but the impulse was lost as she felt him reach for her with an eagerness that mirrored her own.

  He was everywhere at once. Hands rucking up her shift, tangling in her hair. His mouth hot on her throat as she strained toward him, eager. His body hard against hers, legs tangled as she found the smooth skin of his back, muscle curving, the furrow of his spine that her hands followed down to the swell of his buttocks. His hissing intake of breath as he pulled her hands off him and up, pinned them at her shoulders while he forced her to go slow.

  Her breath came hard, her body restlessly moving against his, but he took time to touch her everywhere. His hands and mouth trailed over her, discovering softness and curves that had always hidden beneath armor, that she did not know herself. Hard muscle and sinew melted, everything she had valued in her body forgotten as his mouth found the womanly places and celebrated them until she gasped with pleasure. There at her breast, his tongue tracing the curve, his hand cradling the softness as he took the tip in his mouth and made her cry out with the sensation. He moved lower and found the curve of her waist, his hands moving up and down her sides while his head rested on the softness of her belly. His l
ips found the slight swell of her hip, his hands gripping the fleshy roundness of her bottom as his face moved lower still.

  He tasted there, at her inner thigh, the soft place high up, and she grew still. He must smell her, the rosewater she had bathed in this morning, a thousand years ago, when she had not dreamed of this, could not have imagined that she would feel this fire consuming and feeding her at the same time. His hands came there, to that place he had touched before, opening her and tasting her, his tongue claiming the hidden soft core of her with a bold stroke that made her gasp for air. She was desperate for more. But he moved, fast and lithe, his body skimming hers.

  When his mouth came to hers she swallowed the fierce sound he made, like a starved animal feeding at last, and heard her own unfamiliar high-pitched whimper. She was begging, begging for more, spreading wild beneath him. Her leg wrapped around his, her hand moving down, down, to curve around the hard length of him. It pleased him and pained him, she knew from his harsh breath against her lips. Something like triumph leapt up in her, to know her touch could do this to him. She exulted in it, in the way he dropped his head to her shoulder and groaned, exerting control on himself. His hand covered hers, pulling it away.

  She felt a new intent in him, the way he shifted his weight and positioned himself, and then he pushed inside her.

  This she knew, from seeing animals in the fields and hearing the talk among men, and she stilled as he held himself inside of her. An aching, burning stretch that felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable until suddenly, all at once, it felt like nothing had ever felt. She panted, her hands urging him, more more more, until he moved again, setting a rhythm that she knew was restrained. His mouth captured hers again, their breaths and voices mingling as he moved faster and faster, taking her higher and higher until he cried out with pleasure and collapsed.

  Even then his hands moved over her breasts and her tongue found the salty sweet skin at the curve of his throat. Even then she wanted more of him.