by Mia West
“What is it?” his father asked.
Arthur lowered his voice so his mother wouldn’t hear him. “Has she forgiven me?”
“She’s a pragmatic woman,” his father said softly. “What’s done is done.”
“You must have said something to her.” How many times must his father have done so? Arthur wasn’t sure he could count high enough to figure it.
“It isn’t important.” His father put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you ready, then?” His eyes held a gentler curiosity than his wife’s, and some concern too.
“I am.”
“And Gwen?”
“Haven’t seen her today.”
His father smiled. “Traditions. You’re meant to be stunned by her beauty when you do see her. React accordingly.”
Part usual fatherly advice, that, but in his case it was probably also a reminder of how these things usually went, when the bride and groom looked forward to using their marriage bed for something other than sleep.
“And her brother?”
For a quiet man, his father never hesitated to ask difficult questions. Arthur supposed he’d been trained to it; Matthias had to ask into his patients’ health, and sometimes they didn’t invite the queries first.
“Bedwyr’s looking forward to married life,” Arthur said.
His father’s eyes narrowed. “Why do I have the sense you’re not telling me all there is to know?”
“You’ll have to see Master Philip for that,” Arthur said, grinning. “He knows everything.”
His father ignored the deflection. “You’re scheming.”
“Don’t concern yourself.”
“Hmph.” Matthias shook his head. “Perhaps someday you’ll come to understand how useless a command that is.” His gaze flicked over Arthur’s shoulder, and he nodded. “Lord Uthyr.”
Arthur turned to the warlord, who was approaching them from the meeting hall.
“Master Matthias. Ready to become a father-by-law?”
“To Gwenhwyfar?” his father said with a genuine smile. “It will be my pleasure.”
Uthyr nodded proudly and cocked his chin at Arthur. “And what of you, lad? Ready to give up all your authority to the mistress of your hearth?”
Arthur knew what the man expected and played along, puffing up his chest like a rooster on the strut. “The hearth is inside the house, and I’ll be master of the house. Therefore…”
Uthyr’s sardonic expression slid to Matthias. “Has that been your experience, man?”
Arthur’s father set a paternal hand on his back. “You’d be wise to seek Gwen’s opinion on matters.”
“You might as well,” Uthyr added. “She’s going to give it anyway.” He turned to Matthias. “Speaking of, is your wife inside?”
Matthias nodded. “Readying the household for its new residents.”
“Good. I’ve a request.”
And with that, Uthyr strode into what had very recently been his own home. Arthur tried to see into the dark interior but couldn’t make them out. “What is he asking?”
Matthias shrugged. “Who knows? I’m certain to hear of it later, though.” He took a deep breath and regarded Arthur thoughtfully. “It’s about time to surrender your sword for the day.”
“So it is.” And who knew who he might cross paths with at the armory?
“That’s what I thought,” his father muttered. “Go on, we’ll finish up here.”
Arthur had seen Bedwyr in the weeks leading up to this day, of course. They’d helped with the hunting and harvesting that would make up the village’s winter stores. They hadn’t found many moments alone, but that had only made being around Bed somehow more exciting. If Arthur hadn’t been able to touch him, he’d taken his fill using his other senses. Watching the man’s broad back as he worked, and the hard-won ease with which he now used his short arm. Listening for his quiet voice, which Arthur could pick out even in a boisterous group. Once or twice, he’d worked close enough to Bed to smell the sweat that soaked his shirt. Arthur’s cock had reacted so eagerly he’d had to step away.
When he entered the armory now, he found Bedwyr leaning against a worktable. To anyone else, he might have appeared his usual calm self. He’d tied his long, dark hair in its queue. His chest moved on steady breaths as he stared at the ground. His feet were crossed at the ankles, the picture of patience.
But Arthur saw how the toe of one boot tapped at the dirt, how Bed’s fingers flexed slowly before curling over the table’s edge again. How his pulse jumped in his throat. For Bed, those things spoke of an almost unbearable restlessness, and Arthur knew how to ease it.
“Spar?” he asked.
Bed all but sprang off the table. “Fuck yes.”
When they reached the training yard, Arthur helped him fasten the leather straps that kept his shield on his short arm. To the neighbors passing, they were only shieldmates preparing for a session, or good friends helping each other work out nerves before the wedding ceremonies that would make them brothers-by-law.
Those things were true, but so were these: that Arthur let his hands linger over the straps that wound around Bed’s forearm, slipping his fingers under them to brush his knuckles over the tender skin hidden there, and also that when he did so, Bed shivered and made a sound in his throat that had nothing to do with sword practice and everything to do with the coming night.
For the next half hour, they circled each other, and Arthur threw his anticipation into his parries as much as his weight. It was late autumn—snow would be upon them soon—but even so, sweat shone on Bed’s brow before long. Arthur swiped a sleeve across his own, lowering his arm just in time to fend off an opportunistic strike from his opponent.
“It’s like that, is it?”
Bed grinned.
Arthur came at him in the way Bed liked best, swift and unpredictable, and soon their shouts drew a few spectators from among their neighbors. Hanging on the fence surrounding the yard, they lobbed advice to Arthur and Bedwyr, regarding swordplay on the face of things but underlaid with suggestive hints for their wedding nights. By the time Tiro arrived, they’d heard every manner in which a fellow might sheath his sword, and how different angles, speeds, and forces might affect one’s scabbard. The small crowd groaned as Tiro led the bridegrooms-to-be away from the yard.
Tradition dictated that a man surrender his weapon for the duration of his wedding ceremony. Under normal circumstances, a warrior’s shieldmate wore the blade in his stead, a symbolic promise to protect him at his most vulnerable.
These weddings, however, had caused a shuffle in the traditional way of things. As bridegrooms and shieldmates, Arthur and Bedwyr couldn’t bear each other’s swords. Cai would do the honors for Bed; Tiro had agreed to wear Arthur’s sword.
Arthur had worn it almost continuously since he’d claimed it, and he was going to feel naked now without the weight of it on his belt. But Tiro had held the sword when Arthur’s grandfathers married in Gaul. That had been more than twenty years before, and Tiro’s hair had grown silver since. But he still led patrols during the day and entertained everyone with tales in the evenings. Most important, he had led Arthur’s family to this place when they’d had to leave Gaul. It felt right that he should guard the blade again.
Tiro collected their gear and nodded to them. “Good luck,” he said with unusual brevity and closed the door behind him, leaving them alone in the armory.
Arthur waited another few seconds, listening for voices, and then he backed Bedwyr into the nearest wall. Setting his mouth against Bedwyr’s neck, he was rewarded immediately with the salty taste of him. He licked at it, humming happily.
“Quiet.” Bedwyr’s voice was little more than a growl in his ear.
“You be quiet,” Arthur said.
Bedwyr turned him around and pressed him back into the leather armor. “I mean it.” His mustache prickled Arthur’s throat around the hot, wet push of his tongue.
Arthur groaned and, shoving a leg between Bed�
��s, ground against the soft, heavy mass of his cock. “I want to touch you.”
“We don’t have time.”
When he made to touch him anyway, Bedwyr caught his hand and trapped it against the wall above his head.
Arthur slid his other hand down the front of Bed’s trousers.
Bedwyr chuckled under his breath. “You’ll regret that, cub.”
“I doubt it.” He squeezed the thick, hardening shaft, and Bed shut his eyes. Arthur nuzzled his ear. “Let me suck you.”
“Shut up.”
“Shut me—”
Bedwyr’s mouth found his and dealt him a thorough kiss. Arthur forgot the other man’s prick for a moment as he sank into tasting him. There was the ale from his breakfast, soured slightly by their sparring outside. Under it, the flavor of the man himself. He couldn’t get enough. When he had Bed alone later, in the dark of their house…
He groaned.
Bed let go of his hand, driving his fingers into Arthur’s hair to press his head against the wall. “You’re making too much noise,” he whispered.
“Can’t help it. I keep thinking about tonight.”
Tonight, when they would share a bed behind two bolted doors. For weeks, he’d thought of little else than Bedwyr, stripped to the skin, his tattoos alive in the flickering light of a lamp. He would trace every one of them with the light touch Bed liked. He’d have hours to explore them and the sounds they drew from him.
The thought allowed Arthur to take a breath: they would have hours. Then, not now.
He set his hands to Bedwyr’s shoulders and pushed him back. “You’re right. I can wait.”
That seemed to surprise Bed, who looked at him as if he didn’t recognize him.
Arthur stepped away from the wall of armor. “Just keeping my eye on the objective.”
Bedwyr didn’t say anything. When Arthur turned to look at him, the man stood with his arms crossed over his broad chest, his beard split in a wide, toothy grin.
“What?”
Bedwyr shook his head. “Don’t know whether to be annoyed or proud.”
Arthur leaned close. “Just be ready.”
Bed’s soft laughter warmed the back of his neck as he left the armory.
Chapter 12
Bedwyr was wearing a rut in the grass behind his father’s new house when Uthyr stepped outside.
“Son.”
He stopped his pacing. “Ta.”
“Nervous?”
“No.”
Uthyr crossed to him. “It’s natural.”
“I’m only restless. There’s nothing to do.”
His father laughed. “Such are wedding days for bridegrooms. Can’t do anything useful, can’t get drunk. Not until later. Endurance is the thing.”
“Not patience?”
“Only if you want to sit on your arse.”
Nothing had ever sounded worse. “No, thanks.”
“Didn’t think so,” Uthyr said, smoothing Bedwyr’s shirt across his shoulders.
Bedwyr stood still, his father’s hands warming his skin through the fine wool of his best shirt. He felt torn between the urges to fend off Uthyr’s touch, as he’d trained him to do for so many years, or to lean into it, for he rarely gave it like this. In the end, Bedwyr accepted it as neutrally as he could manage. His father probably just wanted for something to do, as Bedwyr did.
“I don’t suppose you need the same talk Gwenhwyfar is currently receiving?”
A short time before, a knock had sounded at the front door, and Bedwyr had opened it to find Mistress Britte standing there. Uthyr had summoned her, apparently, to advise Gwen and Elain on their wedding nights. Bedwyr didn’t know why the task hadn’t fallen to his father’s woman, Eira. Mistress Britte had nursed Gwen when her mother died in childbirth, but that had been only a circumstance of timing; Arthur had still been suckling as well. Bedwyr figured his father had called on her because the blacksmith had a daughter, and insight into Arthur besides. And, of course, she’d had a wedding night herself, presumably.
Maybe it was simply for show. Mistress Britte didn’t know it, but Elain could have advised Gwen to a point. Having grown up in a brothel, Elain was likely to have heard of just about everything a man and a woman might accomplish on or near a bed.
Then again, perhaps that wasn’t the approach Uthyr had wanted to take.
At any rate, they’d disappeared into Uthyr’s bedchamber for this women’s chat. Bedwyr would have given much to hear what the smith was sharing with them. “Would you have Mistress Britte tell me?”
His father looked at him, surprise registering on his features for a few seconds before he recognized the joke. “She’d give you good advice, I wager. In general. But,” he said and lowered his voice, “it seems you and your wife-to-be know the way of things already.”
Elain did a good impression of someone enjoying a sound fucking. So she might know the way of things. Bedwyr didn’t, not yet. He would discover them before the next dawn, just not with Elain.
“Try not to peel the beams,” Uthyr said. “Makes the rest of us look bad.”
Bedwyr laughed despite himself, and his father clapped him on the shoulder.
“That’s enough talk for everyone in this house,” he said. “Time to act.”
~
The ceremony was to take place under the sky, as people from the surrounding region had traveled to see the weddings of their warlord’s children, and the meeting hall wouldn’t hold everyone. Uthyr and Eira led the procession through the village to the meadow that would serve. Behind them Bedwyr walked with Elain, watching the swing of his father’s queue. His hair, once crow-black, was shot through with silver now. One of those bright strands caught on the fur of his bearskin cloak, glinting in the autumn sunlight. He turned to say something to Eira, and Bedwyr was struck that Uthyr hadn’t offered Eira his arm; they walked side by side but didn’t touch, and Bedwyr couldn’t recall if that was his father’s usual way. He laid his hand over Elain’s where it rested in the crook of his elbow. She looked at him with a gentle smile that softened the angles of her face. Squeezing his arm, she faced forward again, resolute. He wanted to glance over his shoulder at Arthur but resisted. Too many potential witnesses.
He didn’t follow much of what the Myrddin said over the next hour. He’d seen the ceremony conducted dozens of times in his life, but it had never meant much to him. The words veered between exhortations to the gods and muttered, almost threatening, commands to the couple being married. He’d never been able to imagine himself standing before blind Mistress Mabyn as she bound him to a woman. He’d certainly never imagined he’d stand here as part of two couples, wanting the other bridegroom so badly his skin itched with it. He thought of his father’s advice of endurance and understood it better now, though he doubted Uthyr had meant it in exactly this way.
As the old woman circled them, reciting her incantations, Bedwyr sneaked glances at Arthur. He was putting on a good mask of serious attentiveness, speaking clearly when the Myrddin prompted him. Bedwyr envied the ease in Arthur’s shoulders; his own felt as if they were slowly hardening into stone. He rolled them, catching Arthur’s eye. When Mabyn moved on to Gwen, Arthur winked at him. He did it so quickly, looking back to the Myrddin immediately, that Bedwyr didn’t have time to respond.
Well, part of him responded but not a part he wished anyone to notice.
He turned his attention back to Mistress Mabyn. She was the only person he’d ever known to bind couples. It was part of the Myrddin’s duties, separate from those she carried out as midwife to the village’s women. He wondered absently who would be given the station of Myrddin when she died. It could happen any day. Then again, she seemed never to age. What would it be like to live as long as she had?
Another thing he’d never imagined for himself. Warriors didn’t tend to linger.
When his turn came, he said the words he was meant to say, listened as Elain did the same, and then the Myrddin was binding Elain’s wrist to his
arm with a cord she claimed was cured dragon skin but was really only aged leather dyed red. She did him the kindness of binding his right arm, leaving his left hand free to hold his ale horn during the celebration to follow. He thanked her quietly, and she seemed to nod, but it might have been only the slight palsy with which she did most things.
Next, she ordered Arthur to kiss Gwen, and he did, playing it up for the assembled and making Gwen blush. Ordered to do his part, Bedwyr opted for a more modest touch of lips, but Elain thwarted his intentions by holding his head firmly in place with one hand and urging cheers from the crowd with the other. When they grew louder than what Arthur had inspired, she broke away, grinning at him. Evidently, his new wife had a competitive streak.
Finally, the Myrddin proclaimed the couples married, and their neighbors surrounded them with good wishes. Several took up instruments and began to play, others tapped the kegs waiting patiently at the edge of the meadow, and the next stage of endurance began.
It was pleasant enough. The day was fine, unmarred by rain or wind. The ale flowed, and the village’s best cooks presented an array of dishes that made Bedwyr’s mouth water. He teased Elain into feeding him some of them, for which she prodded him into dancing. Arthur enjoyed that too much, and they traded insults disguised as compliments, though Bedwyr had to admit Arthur looked much more comfortable within the circle of their neighbors, spinning Gwen until she was dizzy.
He wondered what it would be like to dance like that, with Arthur’s long, square fingers pressed into his lower back, turning him about and about until they had to stop and catch their balance again. Maybe later, in the privacy of their bedchamber, he could find out. Though, on second thought, it might be wiser to try it in the forest, or by the lake—somewhere they wouldn’t trip over the bed. He had better uses planned for that.
It was a good thing Arthur had left the armory that morning when he had. The moment he’d entered it and spoken, Bedwyr had wanted to throw him down and grind him into the dirt floor. Make him shout, passersby be damned.
