by Ling, Maria
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
Guillaume fixed him with a stare of disgust. "Get yourself a mistress if you want. But I won't have English rats along with us."
"It's not catching," Roland said. "You'll stay Norman."
"It'll give the men ideas."
That had worried Roland, too. "It won't."
"How do you know?"
He didn't, of course. "They're all of good Norman blood, same as you."
"And yourself," Guillaume pointed out. "Yet here you are, talking dirt at me."
"Yes, well." Roland shrugged. "I'm not asking you to share my tastes, just tolerate them. I put up with your temper, you put up with my filthy choice of women. And Geoffrey -- "
"Fucking Geoffrey," Guillaume snarled. "Wants me to mince around saying please and thankyou."
"Just not kill the staff," Roland said in a soothing voice. "It makes things inconvenient. Even for you. Who'd wash your clothes and cook your meals?"
"Inn," Guillaume said.
"Paid for with what?"
"Threat of sword."
"Right." There was no answer to that. "Have you ever considered simmering down a bit?"
"No."
"Huh." Well, it worked, usually. Roland had been grateful for Guillaume's ferocity more than once, on tourneys and journeys. It had saved his life on numerous occasions. "What about a mistress, then?"
"God." Guillaume slammed the board aside, and sent the checkers flying. "Can you turn your mind to anything other than that whore for a moment?"
"No," Roland said.
"Fuck you, then."
Roland sighed, and let it go. Fetched back the board, picked up the checkers from amid the straw and set them back into place as best he could recall. Allowed himself a wistful thought of Leofe, waiting for him in a soft bed at Alice's house.
"Geoffrey's deep with your brother," Guillaume said with a scowl. "Keeps prattling on about managing his own manors. I told him it's what stewards are for."
"He wouldn't give up tourneys," Roland said with conviction.
"Says he might."
Which would break up their threesome. Roland didn't care for that idea, any more than Guillaume did. They'd grown up together, as squires to the same lord, been knighted together all on the same day, fought together since then. Seven or eight years now, more perhaps, he realised with a dizzy sensation that he wasn't sure. It had been all fights and travel, one tourney and then the next, inns and roads and fields. They all blended together, after a while.
"I'll talk him out of it," Roland said.
"If you do that, you can keep the girl." Guillaume flexed his fingers again. "I'll kill that knight next time I see him."
Which would take some doing, Roland thought. Guillaume had fallen to Hugh de Vion, a knight of obscure family who'd come well out of the war with the Empress and was making a name for himself at tourneys here in England. From what Roland had seen of him last, Guillaume had met his match.
"He doesn't fight in Flanders," Roland mused. "At least I don't recall hearing of him there."
"We'll stay until I've nailed him, then."
"What about your shoulder?"
"It'll hold. Just keep Geoffrey on side. He worries me. Though not as much as you." Guillaume pulled a face, same as when he first tasted Henry's wine. "English girl, you must have got your head broken. Would you lie with a pig?"
"No," Roland said. "I'll keep myself a little cleaner than that."
"Not by much."
"Find a nice Norman girl for yourself. They can ride along together."
Guillaume's eyes took on a speculative look. "They could -- "
"Stop." Roland slammed his hand on the table to cut off any sordid details. "You're worse than me."
"Just proves it's catching after all."
***
CHAPTER 5
It would be today, Leofe decided.
Roland had been coming to visit her for a week now. Every afternoon, for several hours. They kissed, played chess or backgammon, shared a meal. Learned French and English, respectively, they were both beginning to understand each other well. And still he hadn't taken what she owed.
It made her nervous. Not afraid, she didn't feel fear any longer, she trusted him not to hurt her. But the longer he delayed, the more she worried that she'd be a disappointment to him. That she'd fail so utterly to please him that he'd hate her for it, resent all the time and care he'd lavished on her.
She'd talked to Alice, gathered courage enough to ask for frank details, which Alice had provided. That didn't make Leofe any less nervous, the entire affair sounded utterly disgusting, she couldn't imagine why anyone could wish to indulge in such things. And yet -- and yet -- she felt the surge of desire every time she saw him, every time they kissed. She longed for more. And dreaded it, because he'd want something special now, he'd expect it. Maybe he'd relied on Alice to tutor her for a while. And now she must deliver, not just the essentials, but a performance worthy of an indulged and expensive mistress.
So. Today. Before her courage gave out entirely.
She'd healed, outwardly at least, Alice's potions had worked better than she'd ever dared to hope. Leofe hadn't felt so healthy in her life, so rested, so safe. Happy, almost, except for this one shadow still lingering in her heart.
And darker shadows, too, of course. Her soul remained broken, that could never heal. But she wasn't going to think about that. She was safe, Ymma was safe -- and hardly complaining at all any more -- and for that she was deeply thankful. It was enough. Unclouded bliss, such as awaited her in Heaven, she could not expect. Though at least she could believe in it now, could imagine Paradise as the home of angels, and God as a caring man.
She peered between the trees, she could hear the soft thump of hooves on earth track. The air smelled of fresh rain, they'd had drizzle all through the morning, Alice had suggested the men might not come today. Which made Leofe wince, she'd washed and combed with special care, she'd wound her courage tight as she could in the hope that it would carry her through. She couldn't bear to be let down now, tomorrow it wouldn't be the same. Or the day after, if the rain continued, as Alice thought it might. Leofe didn't, she was sure she could sense a brightening of the skies. And it came, just after noon, and settled.
There they came, the pair of them, in matching cloaks. Roland must have borrowed one of Henry's, Leofe thought, his own was dusty with travel and use. She'd come to know it well, watched for the first glimpse of it through the trees. Which was silly, she knew that, she mustn't let him know how eager she was for him to think well of her. Alice had cautioned against that, said the woman must always be the more self-possessed. Men didn't want a clinging vine, or so she stated firmly, and Leofe nodded and pretended to know what she meant.
Three knights followed, as always, the same men every time. The only ones Henry trusted, Leofe guessed. Why else would it always be them? She wondered how he explained it to the others, if they resented the favoured few. One day she might pluck up courage enough to ask him.
He wasn't nearly as formidable now as when she first met him. She'd even grown accustomed to his dry sense of humour, didn't take offence as she might have done otherwise. Wasn't afraid of him any more, he could be harsh enough she didn't doubt, if he felt it was deserved, but she had yet to hear him speak a single word against anyone defenceless. Even herself -- though she well knew the distaste with which he regarded her, as an English girl, he'd never been anything but courteous, to her and Ymma both. She owed him a great deal. Would tell him so, she'd practised French with Alice until she thought her brain would seep out of her ears. But she would speak today -- or tomorrow, perhaps, when her first great task was over. Though that carried a risk, too, that she would have failed to please, that Roland would withdraw his protection. Which meant Henry would do the same, she had no illusions on that point. And much as that frightened her, she still owed him gracious thanks for everything he'd already done.
He rode fir
st into the garden, grinned at Alice as he swung himself down, kissed her with abandon. Turned to Leofe, momentarily forgot to apply his customary expression of disgust. She saw him as a Norman woman might, cheerful and at ease, and in a flash understood how Alice could love him.
Now was the moment. On impulse, Leofe stepped forward and gave a deep curtsy.
"I wish to tell you, my lord, how grateful I am for all you have done, for me and my sister both," she said in French. Her pronunciation wavered a little as nerves caught up with her, but she thought she'd managed the words sufficiently well.
Henry stared at her. If she'd grown wings and flown away he could not have looked more startled.
"Pleasure," he muttered in English, then swung towards Alice as if appealing for help. She led him into the house, cool as if nothing extraordinary had happened, but glanced back at Leofe with an approving smile.
Roland kissed her hand, said something too rapidly for her to follow. Repeated it more slowly when she asked him to. "I said I'll have to be careful now. Soon you'll know all my secrets."
She blushed at that, which made him laugh, and they followed the other pair inside. Up the stairs, to her own room -- Cecile's room, she corrected herself sternly, she had only the use of it for a little while. Where she'd set the games out the way he liked them, she wasn't going to push if he decided against, but she did lay a hand on his arm to stay him as he moved towards them. Held his gaze with her own, intent, as she'd seen Alice do with Henry. Felt a flurry of fear and excitement as Roland paused, slid his arms around her, pulled her in for a kiss. Used her tongue against his own, Alice had explained this to her with customary -- and breathtaking -- frankness, Leofe thought she'd mastered the idea of it at least. Though she wasn't prepared for the physical shock that passed through her at that touch, and the answering shock through Roland too, she felt it in his muscles and the tightening of his arms, heard it in the quick sharp intake of his breath. He was a little taller than her, after all, she hadn't been conscious of it before but she was now, and broader across the shoulders too, she could measure that with the full span of her hands, and stronger -- she felt a moment of fear. Only a twinge, which soon passed, as she recognised how gentle his touch was, how slow and careful the slide of his hands over her back.
She pressed against him, this felt so good, she wanted to be as close to him as the limitations of a physical form allowed. Let her hands drift up across his shoulders and around the back of his neck and head, buried her fingers in his newly-clipped hair. His tongue reached further into her mouth, questing. She thought for a moment of biting, of fierce brute force. Which was a new thought, and a strange one: it frightened her. She'd always been the victim of men's violence, she'd never thought to be violent herself. But she wanted to be, now, wanted to hurt him. Had to stop herself, physically make her body obey, because he wouldn't love her for that, no, he'd take her for a witch or worse, and then --
Roland paused, pulled away, looked down at her with puzzled eyes and a slight frown. Yes, she had tensed, and not with desire. With something else, not fear either, she didn't have a word for this. Ferocity -- it came to her unbidden -- she thought of lashing out, of hard fierce strikes, except it was her doing it now and there was no pain.
He tilted his head a little to one side, regarded her with dark intense eyes. Desire shot through her, a fierce strong urge, this she could not mistake, it was the need to possess. To make him hers. Except that he wasn't, and couldn't be, because she was English and he was Norman and they could never truly meet, never overturn the rule of might.
Though she would, she thought, at this moment she had the strength of any man, she could lift him with brute force and fling him onto the bed. At which point she laughed at herself, had to, she doubted she would get him clear of the floor. Yet she did feel strong, powerful, exhilarated. She grinned at him, open and fearless, and he laughed aloud and lifted her off the floor, no effort there. God he was strong, her Norman. He carried her over to the bed and laid her down on it, she pulled him down over her.
He didn't need to ask, but he did so anyway: "Do you want this?" in flawless English, he'd been working on it too. They'd get there, little by little, word by word. No matter how long it took. A lifetime maybe, she shivered at that thought. Reason told her otherwise, but reason wasn't here, couldn't make itself heard through the walls of desire, she wouldn't heed it now, there was no need. Nothing but this closeness, this fervent searching for bare skin, which they reached and touched together. And they fitted, she'd harboured secret fears about that too, but there was nothing to fear, they slid together as if made to fit. Pleasure coursed through her, she'd never experienced any sensation like this before, a hunger welled up inside her that would not be sated. That demanded more from him, deeper and harder, until with a startled whimper she crested a wave and crashed into utter exhilarating joy. Roland rode it with her, pushed her under with the slightest touch, he could command anything now and she would do it. But he didn't, just clenched her tight to him and whispered in her ear, French words whose meaning she knew though no one had yet taught them to her. Let her subside, and crest again, and fall each time further into the depths of bliss. Caught her at last and laid her to rest in a fathomless deep, far beyond any sense of pain and fear, stayed there with her until at long last she drew breath, and opened her eyes, and discovered that she was here still, in a blanketed bed in a room with painted walls, and that the sunshine had subsided into the soft gentle patter of rain.
If this was what it was like, she thought, if everyone who shared a bed shared this, she could not grasp why men spoke of it in such coarse harsh words. Why they didn't celebrate it as the miracle it was, a gift from the angels, a touch from God Himself.
Unless they hoarded it, kept it for their own, fearful lest God could not spare enough for everyone. Which made them heretics, for if she had learned one thing from the ceaseless mumblings of their parish priest, it was that God was infinite, all-powerful, and capable of touching every soul.
Roland kissed her forehead and cheeks, her lips, her throat, with quick frantic movements that made her smile. He'd known pleasure too then, more than he'd ever expected, he seemed as startled as she was. Delighted, too, when she grinned at him he grinned back in turn, laughed aloud, hugged her to him. She wished she could tell him just how much she felt, how she overflowed with pleasure and gratitude and delight. But her eyes and her hands must speak for her, and her lips too, she kissed in a frenzy like his own. Subsided again, as he rolled onto his back and pulled her with him to settle on his chest, and let out a long breath that ended in a whistle. Which made her laugh, she couldn't help it. He was pleased with her, more than pleased -- and that, she realised with a guilty start: she had forgotten -- that was her purpose in being here.
For all her worry, it had come off well. Better than she would ever have dared hope. Though now she must deliver the same, each time he came to her, he would expect it. But she wouldn't worry about that, she thrust the fear aside defiantly. It had no hold over her, not now, she could not be frightened while she glowed with the aftermath of ecstasy, could not fear tomorrow while the moment held so much joy. Better to exist only in the now, to glory in it, and leave the rest to God. Who had it safe in hand, she trusted Him in this instant more than she had ever done in her life. He had borne her through evil and suffering, to this island of delight, and He would carry her still. She had faith. For the first time in her entire life, she had faith.
She lay there on his chest, felt absolutely at peace, listened to his heartbeat as it settled and slowed. Listened to his breathing, long deep steady breaths, found her own lungs and heart slow to match his. Gasped for air all of a sudden, she couldn't hold this rhythm for long. Which made her laugh to herself, quietly, for no reason. Made her stroke the bare skin of his belly and side, felt the muscles taut underneath. He was so strong, she thought he could stand against any danger, any threat. Could protect her against any force. If he chose to. If she was worth t
hat much to him.
She didn't know how to ask him that, lacked the words for it. And maybe it was better not to ask, she doubted he'd want to know her fears. No, he wanted a mistress, a woman who'd be to him what Alice was to Henry, a pleasant companion for his bed for a few hours of leisure, away from the demands of daily life. Though she wondered why Roland didn't have the same arrangement, an elegant Norman woman in a house of her own. Or maybe he did. She must remember that possibility, it could save her a great deal of disappointment one day.
But for now, for this moment, she was content to lie here with his arms around her and his smile in her hair, and smile in return, though he couldn't see her, and be at peace.
She started at the knock on the door. The air in the room had chilled a little, and the gloom deepened, and heavy rain smattered against the window. She had slept.
Leofe raised herself on one elbow, turned to kiss Roland. His arm, heavy on her ribs, fell away. He was sleeping still, that battered face smoothed with contentment, younger than she had imagined. He looked a boy now, happy and at ease, oblivious to grief and pain and suffering.
She hesitated there, leaned over to kiss him, thought better of it. Her lip ached and stung, for all Alice's salves and gentle as he'd been. Her crotch too, she'd have to wash and soothe after he'd left. But it was worth it. Oh, it was worth every ache.
Instead she caressed his hair and his cheek, watched a smile well up in his lips, watched his features tighten as he journeyed up towards wakefulness. Watched his dark eyes open, and glitter at her, sunshine still in this room despite the rain outside.
He glanced at the window, then back at her, and the smile broadened. Very carefully, enunciating each sound, he said in French: "God hears my wish and sends bad weather. We can't take the horses out in this." At which she laughed, and let herself be wrapped in a new embrace. Thought of Alice's knock, sought for the right words, shrugged away such concerns. She would remain here for as long as it pleased him, it was no duty of hers to keep him punctual at meals. Though he ought to know, if he was to make that decision. "Food," she said in French, and knocked on an imaginary door in thin air.
