by Mia West
“I wasn’t fucking your sister. Gods, Bed.”
“But you went through with it?”
“Of course we did. Mistress Mabyn was watching us.”
“She’s blind.”
Arthur laughed wryly. “She still sees, just not with her eyes.”
He seemed to shudder, and Bedwyr was annoyed to feel a twinge of sympathy. “That bad?”
Arthur shrugged. “It’s done.”
“Is she all right? Gwen?”
“She’s fine.”
“You didn’t hurt her, did you?”
Arthur turned to him. “I’m not a complete boor.”
He wasn’t. An irritating voice in Bedwyr’s head reminded him Gwen could have had a much worse wedding night, married to a man she’d known only from a distance.
“I spent on her belly, all right? She…put the seed where it needed to go. Where Mistress Mabyn needed to find it.”
Bedwyr closed his eyes in relief. He should have known they would find a way.
“She said Elain knows remedies that keep women from quickening. I didn’t plant the seed myself, but she’s going to take one, all the same.”
“How did you find us?”
“Where else would you be?” He bumped Bedwyr’s shoulder with his own. “When you’re restless, you spar. Same as I do. And you wouldn’t go to the training yard because folks might wonder at a man and his new wife beating each other with swords.”
Bedwyr snorted despite himself.
“Come,” Arthur said, “you look rough. You need sleep.”
He helped Bedwyr haul himself to his feet and led the way back down the path and into the village. They took care to skirt Uthyr’s new house, dipping down the hillside and through the shadows. When they reached the rear door of the house, Arthur opened it for him.
Bedwyr stepped inside, only to stop short as two men rose from a bench at the table. He had jerked his sword from its scabbard before he recognized them.
Philip and Tiro.
He turned to Arthur. “What is this?”
Arthur smiled.
Chapter 15
Arthur shut the door and bolted it. He turned to find Bedwyr still had his sword drawn.
“Have you lost your way?” Bed asked Philip.
Philip smiled. “Not at all.”
Arthur set his armor aside and took Bed’s from him. “I asked them to come.”
Wary eyes studied his own. “Why?”
He led Bedwyr to the bench opposite the other men and gestured for him to sit. Arthur settled beside him, and their guests took their seats again. Bedwyr still looked uneasy, and Arthur wanted to take up his hand. But he wasn’t sure how Bed would react to that in front of the masters, so he leaned on his elbows and laced his itching fingers together. He was glad Philip had agreed to speak first because his belly had begun to jump and twist like a fish out of water.
“You’ve had a long, taxing day—and night, it appears,” Philip said to Bedwyr. “We won’t take up much more of it. This may seem like an odd question to pose just now, but tell me: what do you know of the partnership between Arthur’s grandfathers?”
Bedwyr frowned, then blinked as if to clear his head. “They were together for a long time?”
Philip nodded. “They knew each other as boys, then were apart for twenty years. When the western Empire fell, Marcus returned home. He and Wolf decided to work together to ride out the storm.”
“They trekked across Gaul,” Bedwyr said.
Tiro elbowed Philip. “Still can’t believe Wolf did that.”
“Truly?” Philip said. “It was Marcus.”
Tiro conceded that.
Philip looked back to Bedwyr. “You know they came to a stronghold on the coast and helped fortify it again.”
Bedwyr shrugged. “I’ve heard in passing.”
“Did you know that Marc grew ill one year and nearly died?”
“No.”
“They didn’t speak of it. Each seemed happy to have the incident behind him. I don’t know whether that was out of superstition or simply an embracing of a future they almost lost. At any rate, after Marcus recuperated, they formalized their bond.”
Bedwyr watched Philip, but when the cleric didn’t say more, he turned to Arthur.
Arthur cleared his throat. “They married.”
“Two men can’t marry,” Bedwyr said.
“They lived on the edge of the world, Bed. They did what they wanted to do.”
Bedwyr’s hand curled into a fist. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because we live at another edge of the world.”
That dark gaze drilled into him. After a moment, Bedwyr broke it to address Philip. “Give us a moment, please.”
Philip and Tiro rose silently and crossed to Bedwyr’s chamber. When the door closed behind them, Arthur reached for his hand, but Bed drew it back.
“What are you about, cub?”
The nickname gave him pause. It implied he was up to some sort of mischief.
He’d never been more serious, or determined. “I think we should marry.”
“Two men can’t marry,” Bedwyr said again, the words grinding out between his teeth. His fist shook on the tabletop.
“We can do what we want.”
“No, we fucking cannot.”
“Bed.”
“What?”
Arthur laid his hands on either side of Bedwyr’s head. When Bed made to pull away, Arthur held on. “We can. Right here.”
“Don’t joke, Arthur.”
Bed’s whisper was a fist squeezing Arthur’s throat. He still didn’t trust Arthur’s words, but now there was something else in his voice.
Hope.
“I don’t joke about blood bonds,” Arthur said.
Bed’s eyes darted back and forth, trying to read his own.
“We could go forward with our scheme,” Arthur said, “me married to Gwen and you to Elain, sharing a house and swapping beds. But I want more than that. I want an oath.”
“You don’t trust me?”
He gripped Bedwyr’s head more firmly. “I trust you. I want to give you my oath.”
Bedwyr’s jaw muscles knotted under Arthur’s palm. “You’re nineteen.”
“My grandfathers were fifty. I’m not waiting that long.”
“Are you drunk?”
“No.”
“You’re insane, then.”
“Can’t argue that.”
The attempt at humor fell flat. Bedwyr only stared at him.
Unease crept up Arthur’s arms. He wished Bedwyr would say something. “Don’t you want my vow?”
Bedwyr exhaled in a rough gust. Then his hand wrapped around the back of Arthur’s neck, and he kissed him, hard. They pushed at each other for long seconds, taking and giving, before Bedwyr rested his forehead against Arthur’s. “I want it.”
Arthur’s chest threatened to burst. “And I want yours.”
“Ah,” Bedwyr said. “The truth at last.”
Arthur took a chance and chuckled, and Bedwyr’s soft laughter warmed his chin.
“So,” Bedwyr said, “Philip and Tiro—they came to witness this?”
“Philip performed the ritual for my grandfathers. Tiro held Marcus’s sword. That was when Wolf gave it to him.”
“I don’t have anything to give you.”
“I don’t need a sword.”
“I suppose not.”
Arthur rose and knocked on the bedchamber door. Tiro opened it and ushered Philip into the main room. They looked between Arthur and Bedwyr expectantly.
Bedwyr stood. “How does this go?”
Philip smiled and gave Arthur’s shoulder a squeeze.
He directed them to stand face to face before the hearth fire. The low flames there set the shadows of Bedwyr’s features to jittering as they waited for Philip to begin. Bed was holding himself still, like a lad at his lessons, and Arthur wanted to tell him that, in this at least, Tiro and Philip were equals to them, frie
nds come to help, not masters to appease.
“Arthur, place your sword between you, pommel up. Both of you, hold the blade.”
Arthur wrapped his hand around it, pressing his thumb into the shallow channel of the blade. Bedwyr grasped it below him. Tremors through the metal made Arthur’s hand tingle. He loosened his grip and slid it down to rest his hand on Bed’s.
“Arthur,” Philip said, “do you vow, over this blade and before this hearth and under this roof, to make a lifelong blood bond to this man?”
“This I vow.”
Bed frowned slightly, his eyes lingering on Arthur’s mouth.
“Bedwyr, do you vow, over this blade and before this hearth and under this roof, to make a lifelong blood bond to this man?”
Bedwyr looked up at him for a long moment, then said, “This I vow.”
Arthur couldn’t help smiling at him. Bed didn’t, his gaze jumping to Tiro as the man stepped toward them.
Lifting the sword from their grasp, he held it horizontally between them. “Nick your left thumbs on the edge.”
Arthur had never cut himself on purpose. It burned. Philip had explained to him what to do next, though, so he showed Bedwyr, slipping his thumb between Bedwyr’s lips.
Bed’s eyes widened in the hearth light, but he gave his thumb, pressing it onto Arthur’s tongue. The metallic tang of blood struck him. He sucked on it, and Bed did the same, holding him in a warm, wet grip that had him thinking a few steps beyond this moment.
Philip’s voice brought him back. “Blood is life,” he said. “Give these offerings freely and with unbending devotion. Take them fiercely and with open hearts. Tiro, do you bear witness?”
“I witness it.”
Philip laid his hands on their shoulders. “Arthur, Bedwyr. You are hereby bound by blood and oath, to each other, from this day onward.”
Bedwyr’s jaw relaxed, releasing Arthur’s thumb. Arthur let him go and took half a step back. It had gone more quickly than he’d expected.
The two older men congratulated them, and Tiro handed Arthur his sword. “You don’t need my approval,” he said, “but I’m glad you have this.”
“Thanks, Master Tiro.”
Before he turned for the door, Philip pressed something into Arthur’s palm. “Slow and steady.” He winked, then smiled at Bedwyr. “Good night.”
They slipped out into the darkness behind the house. Bedwyr bolted the door before crossing back to him.
“What did he give you?”
Arthur opened his palm to show him the small bottle. “Oil.”
Bedwyr’s eyes flashed up to meet his.
A moment later he relieved Arthur of his sword and handed him a lamp. Then he took Arthur’s wrist and pulled him to the bedchamber.
Once inside, Bedwyr slid the bolt.
“Are you going to bolt every door?” Arthur teased him.
“Haven’t I said I would?” He took the lamp and set it on a shelf next to the bed.
It took up most of the chamber, that bed. It wasn’t built as tall as Arthur’s, but it was broad—the same mattress he’d lain on already, that night several weeks before, when he’d slipped into Lord Uthyr’s house under his sleeping nose. Until he’d turned out not to be sleeping.
A close call, warranting three bolted doors.
He felt a tug at his queue and smiled. A few seconds later, Bedwyr had pulled away the leather thong that tied Arthur’s hair. Who knew where it landed? Who cared, when Bed’s fingers were then free to scrape across his scalp? He turned around.
The lamplight made all of Bed’s darkness darker—his long hair, his beard, his eyes. What the light touched—his forehead, his nose—Arthur did too, leaning the short distance down to set his lips to them, and then Bedwyr was holding his head and kissing him deeply. Arthur tasted his own blood, pushed harder to feel the scratch of beard on his lips. Bedwyr gave him what he sought, and the kiss began to feel like a promise.
Or a warning. He’d told Arthur what would happen when they had doors to shut out the world.
“Master Philip said slow and steady,” Arthur said.
“Master Philip is gone.”
“But—”
Bedwyr laid callused fingers on Arthur’s lips. “Will you give me whatever I want tonight?”
A shiver raced across Arthur’s skin. “Yes.”
“Promise it.”
Arthur’s fingers hesitated at his belt. Bed’s eyes were blacker even than the shadowed corners of the chamber. “I promise.”
Bed stripped his own clothes, hanging everything with care. Now the lamplight showed more, playing over the thick muscle of his arms and back, the meaty curves of his arse. The inked figures on his skin seemed to move, beckoning, and the black hair on his chest shone glossy in the light. Arthur reached out and touched it, trailing his fingers down over Bed’s belly. His skin was warm, the flesh behind it solid and powerful.
Arthur stripped quickly, leaving his clothes where they landed in favor of climbing under the blankets. Bedwyr extinguished the lamp. A few seconds later, the ticking rustled as he joined Arthur in the bed. Arthur couldn’t see him—the chamber had no windows—but he could feel Bed’s heat on his front. He reached for him.
Bedwyr caught his wrist. His hold was loose but firm. “Not many men have two wedding nights under the same arc of the moon.”
Arthur laughed at the strangeness of it. Bedwyr didn’t.
“Roll over.”
Heart beating like a drum, he turned to lie on his other side. Now he couldn’t see what Bed was doing. Where was the oil? Had Elain told him how this should go? Philip had had several suggestions, and this had been one of them, but he’d rather see Bedwyr’s face, now that he was thinking about it—
Bedwyr pulled him back into the warm, furry curve of his body.
It was the shepherd’s hut all over again, as if they’d somehow traveled backward nearly a year. Except this bed was much more comfortable than the bunk in the hut. Arthur wriggled his arse farther into Bed’s lap.
Bedwyr stopped him with a firm hand.
Arthur looked over his shoulder. “We can do it this way. Philip said so.”
“Stop mentioning Master Philip.”
“You’re the one—”
Bed’s fingers covered Arthur’s mouth for several seconds during which they lay still, or as still as Arthur could be. Then Bed shifted, his lips brushing an especially sensitive place below Arthur’s ear. “This is what I want tonight. To sleep, just so.”
Sleep?
But the doors—they were bolted. His grandfathers probably hadn’t even waited to get back to a building to climb on each other. He wagered they’d done so right there on the clifftop where Philip had just married them, sending their witnesses fleeing.
“Are you sure?”
“Certain.”
But…truly?
Bedwyr tapped his chest. “Stop thinking.”
Arthur was all but vibrating with the urge to roll over and offer more. But he’d promised: whatever Bedwyr wanted. It had seemed only fair, after spending the first part of the night in bed with Gwen. Evidently, all Bed wanted was to sleep, safe behind the bolts, together for the first time since the hut.
Arthur sort of wanted to tease him for it, to say that only old people who’d been bound for decades went to bed just to sleep, but the man’s knuckles were rubbing his breastbone, up, down, up, down, and before long, Arthur yawned.
Bed caught the yawn and gave his own. He shifted, settling closer, and gave a contented sigh. “Goodnight, cub.”
Something still nagged at him, but his mind felt too exhausted to puzzle it out. “Goodnight.”
He fell asleep surrounded by Bedwyr’s warmth.
Chapter 16
Hearth sounds woke Bedwyr the next morning: the quiet scrape of clay lids, the clank of iron spoons, and the hushed voices of women.
He stretched. Though the chamber was still dim, he felt better rested than he had in weeks. Then the bedding next to
him rustled, and he remembered he had company. He watched Arthur stretch his improbably long limbs.
“Morning.”
Arthur smiled lazily at him. “Morning.”
“Sleep well?”
“Very.” He rolled toward Bedwyr. “I want you.”
Bedwyr laughed, trying to keep himself quiet. “Where are my honeyed words? You’re meant to charm me.”
“Done talking, done sleeping, done waiting.” Arthur pressed close and claimed Bedwyr’s mouth.
He lay back and surrendered it. He’d been so weary last night, but this morning… No, this morning he had his hand full of Arthur’s tight arse, and the rest of him providing continuous friction the entire length of his body. They’d worked for this, waited for it, and now they finally had it: a house, a bed, and an hour before anyone could reasonably expect a newlywed to show his face. And they were that: bound to each other now by blood and oath.
That he hadn’t expected.
Nor executed fully, if he were honest with himself. It had been a formal thing, but not complete, not by any measure. He’d been drawn taut as a slingshot by the time Arthur had found him sparring with Elain. Then Philip had been there—his old teacher—and Tiro, who’d seen every idiot thing he’d ever done in the training yard as a lad. And the blood bond itself… He’d never imagined such a thing might be his to make, not in any way that might anchor it in his chest the way it should be done, the resulting chain connecting him to another man. Another warrior.
To his shieldmate.
Between his stupor and their audience, he could no more have told Arthur everything he should have than he could have run a foot race over the mountains. And the ceremony had been brief anyway, aloof in its formality, the taste of blood aside. There’d been no moment to add anything, and even if there had been, he wouldn’t have been able to marshal words weighty enough to match Philip’s.
Which meant Bedwyr had a fair few more things to say to Arthur, to promise him. He supposed they had time now. Maybe he could share them here, one every morning.
He kissed Arthur deep and slow. He was tempted to roll them over and explore his man’s body, but then Arthur began to slide down his front, and Bedwyr was happy to let him do the exploring. They had all morning. All day? Why not—he’d bar the doors for a month if he wanted. Wasn’t that the notion of a wedding moon? He burrowed back into the bedding with a contented grunt.
