Simon’s Lady

by Julie Tetel Andresen

  But not in this case. “We don’t need it,” he said. Since he had already determined that the occasion did not call for subtlety, he ran an openly assessing eye over her. “You look to me to be a healthy woman in all respects.” He continued bluntly, “I’ve every intention of consummating this marriage, and as a widow, there is no question of your virginity.” To clinch his arguments, he added, “Since you, my lady, have no family to object to me, I cannot imagine what purpose the bedding would serve for a marriage that was arranged by royal decree.”

  He saw the color drain from her face to leave it purest alabaster, then return to tinge her cheeks palest pink. She said nothing, only nodded. He was pleased to think that she found his arguments reasonable and not worth refuting. Then he called to a page, who trotted up and, upon receiving rapid instructions, trotted off to obey them. At that point a thought occurred to him. “Do you need any of your women to attend to you?”

  She shook her head.

  As they left the hall, he was further pleased that his wife was not a slave to empty ritual and that she did not intend to admit giggling serving women into their chamber on their wedding night. At the same time, he was slightly puzzled by her continuing silence. With her head held high and her eyes fixed straight ahead, he could not determine whether she was reluctant to leave or as happy as he to be quit of the throng. Whatever the state of her emotions, he knew that she was not angry. Her anger he had experienced with great delight in the gardens the evening before, when she had threatened him verbally with knives.

  He was curious. When they were near the exit, he asked abruptly, “Did you wish to remain, my lady, at the celebration?”

  She shook her head again quickly, glanced at him with a “no” in her eyes then looked away again.

  “You’re content to leave?” he pursued. He looked over his shoulder at the revelry in the hall then down at her.

  She nodded. “Yes, it is time, as you have said,” she answered, but her voice sounded as if the words came with effort.

  He glanced back over his shoulder, for he had caught Geoffrey of Senlis’s eye just before he looked at Gwyneth. Senlis had been watching them depart, and when Beresford looked back at him, the baron bowed deeply. Perfectly understanding the message Senlis conveyed to him, Beresford’s eyes narrowed to a gleam of gray, and he smiled.

  He was still smiling when he ushered Gwyneth through the passage that led from the hall to the staircase. He was smiling when she removed her fingers from his wrist so that she could grasp the newel post of the staircase with one hand and lift her skirts with the other. He was smiling when his thoughts ran far ahead to riverbanks and bramble bushes and a beautiful woman in his arms.

  He had forgotten his initial outrage against this marriage of political convenience. The cramp that had come over him at the very thought of marriage. The strange pain the sight of her always caused him. The invisible bonds around his chest when he had stood in the chapel during the wedding mass. He remembered only the unlacing of those bonds when he had kissed Gwyneth for the first time, drenched in the chill fires of bright stained light.

  That was it, then. He had been wanting to kiss her throughout the festivities but had not found a moment alone with her. Certainly he had enjoyed touching her hip and her arm and her shoulder when they danced, but the enjoyment had not been satisfying enough for him to wish to make a fool of himself twice on the dance floor. Besides, he did not know why he should waste his time with such an annoying activity as dancing when what he wanted to do was hold her and kiss her and sink himself into her.

  She was ascending the stairs ahead of him, and her hips were at eye level. He admired her movements. Perfect swing. Perfect curves. Perfect opportunity. He reached out and put his hands on her waist, bringing her to a halt. He advanced until he was only one step down from her, and turned her so that she was facing him. He moved with his customary speed, and Gwyneth was caught off guard. In turning, she almost lost her footing on the smooth stone, but he was as steady as he was quick and easily absorbed the force of her full weight against him.

  He saw the surprise on her face before he caught her. He liked the flash in her eyes that followed. It was irritation or, perhaps, a dislike of being surprised. It reminded him of the look in the eyes of an unwary opponent he had outmaneuvered.

  They were eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose, mouth-to-mouth. His hands had come to rest on her hips. One of hers had fallen on his shoulder. The other rested against the newel post for support. She exhaled a tiny gasp.

  “That was dangerous,” she chided when she realized that she was not going to fall and that she was secure in his grip.

  “Let’s hope,” he said.

  Then he placed his lips on hers. He relished the sense of danger in drawing her to him so that she was nestled against him. He delighted in the feel of her breasts against his chest, her hips flush with his. He reveled even more in the fact that she was level with him, their heights equalized. It increased his sense of being engaged with a most worthy opponent, an opponent to challenge, to fear.

  When he had set eyes on her for the first time across the great hall, he recalled, he had imagined himself galloping across the tourney field with his lance raised and his charger beneath him. When she had spoken to him of the Norse gods a few evenings ago, he remembered lowering his visor against the effect of her stories and her smile. Now he was happy to strip off his armor and engage in hand-to-hand combat, a gentle art that took skill and perception and an ability to respond move for move, advance for advance, stroke for stroke. He was eager to wrestle her to the ground, to roll with her on the earth, to best her, to have her best him.

  He took the hand she held against the newel post and placed it on his shoulder. Now she was holding him as intimately as he was holding her. He moved a hand up to her full breast, which fit his hand much like the hilt of the magic sword, Gungnir, must have fit Odin’s grip, judging from the stories that Gwyneth had told him. He moved his hand back down her body to the curve of her hip. The gesture felt familiar to him, as if he were sliding his palm over the rim of his shield to polish it. Better than a magic sword, better than his shield, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he was holding her hips against his.

  With his kiss, he prodded and sought and was initially disappointed. He wanted more from her. He wanted her engagement. He wanted her response. Her anger. Her fire.

  He trailed his mouth from her lips to her ear. He spoke as he would to bait a hesitant opponent. “We can always return to the hall to finish our discussion of tournament regulations, if you like.”

  She drew her head slightly back to look at him. The glint in her eye was distinctly speculative. “To inform me of the technicalities?”

  “To bore you with them, yes,” he said. His hands left her hips and came to meet hers on his shoulders. He slid his fingers between hers. The cool appraisal in her beautiful eyes inspired him mightily. She had not misunderstood.

  She drew a deep breath. “Why should I wish for you to bore me with the technicalities of tournament regulations?” she asked. Her voice was low and lilting and completely clear of its earlier obstruction.

  “If you are not quite ready—” he drew her toward him and licked her lips, once, lightly “—for this.” He kissed her.

  When he finished, her face was flushed, and not, he was pleased to note, with embarrassment. “Well, now,” she said. “We’ve agreed that it’s time, and that’s that.” She gave him a slight push, causing him to teeter, and thereby disengaged her fingers from his. Without waiting to see whether he lost his footing, she turned smartly and gracefully on the steps and began to mount them again. The swish of her hips just then was especially appealing.

  His smile was very broad as he followed her up the stairs. It had not faded when they arrived at the door to his chamber, where the page was standing ready to bow them into the room. He dismissed the lad, and after Gwyneth preceded him into the chamber, he shut the door behind him with a great deal of
anticipation. He was satisfied by what he saw around him.

  He had ordered that a low fire be lit to take the damp and any chill from the room. He walked toward it to stir the embers. On the floor next to the hearth was the tray he had requested, on which sat two goblets of wine, a silver ewer and a bowl of fruit. The shutters of the high window to the exterior were half-closed, filtering the pastel glow of the dying day. Below the window, filling half the room, was the large bed, the covers of which had been turned down invitingly. The bed would serve the purpose, of course, but he was thinking that clean, crisp sheets were a poor second to the pleasures to be found on a riverbank.

  He turned his back to the warm coals and saw Gwyneth standing in the center of the room. He reached out his hands, beckoning to her. She came forward obediently, her features composed, her eyes upon him, unwavering. The veil held by the circlet on her head fluttered gently as she walked, creating the effect of a gossamer halo or a transparent butterfly wing.

  “You’ll be warmer here when you undress,” he said.

  Her voice was low when she replied, “I’m not cold.”

  “All the better then.”

  When she was next to him, he dropped his hands to unclasp his belt. He let it fall to the floor, and his sword clattered beside it. His desire for her was flowing easily throughout his body. It was strong, but he was in control of it. Even so, he saw no need to wait for his satisfaction, and he intended to make full use of the long night ahead of them.

  He pulled his tunic over his head and let it fall atop his belt. His shirt came off next and was added to the drift of clothing. He deftly undid his cross-garters and every other clasp that held him together. Shoes and chausses were cast aside, and he was naked before her, ready and rigid with husbandly intention.

  He saw that Gwyneth had made no progress with her clothing beyond moving her right hand to the wrist of her left, where she was pulling at ties, rather ineffectually, it seemed to him. He made an impatient noise deep in his throat and moved toward her. He raised his hands to help with the absurd complexities of feminine apparel, but before he touched her, she looked up, and he saw deep in her violet eyes a start of surprise and another, darker emotion. Her eyes lowered quickly. When his hands came down on her shoulders, she flinched.

  It was an involuntary reaction on her part, he knew. And it was so minimal that he might have missed it, except that he was too well experienced in the precise moment of hand -to-hand contact on the field where the world came into the sharp focus of kill or be killed. He was also well experienced in adjusting strategies to varying goals, understood vulnerability as only a strong man could and distinguished sharply between harm and pleasure. He raised her chin. Her lashes fluttered up. He was not entirely surprised, but was truly impressed by the look of stout defiance deep in her violet eyes. He saw now that she was afraid of him but had so masked her fear that even he, who could smell the faintest whiff of it, had not sensed it.

  The situation was plain. It was equally plain what he was going to do about it. He knew how to preserve her dignity, and he wanted to rouse her desire. He did not say bluntly, “You have no need to fear me.” He did not say pityingly, “You’ve been abused.” He did not say chivalrously, “If Canute of Northumbria were not already dead, I would kill him.”

  What he said was, “You have properly forewarned me, my lady, and I’m unarmed, as you see.” He looked down at himself, unashamed of his nakedness and his naked desire. “You’ll understand that I need to check you for knives.”

  He liked the shift of emotions in her eyes as she registered his statement, and the color that came to her pale cheeks. He was aware of the rise and fall of her breasts not far from his chest as she took a deep breath. He raised his hands slowly and deliberately to her head and removed the circlet. He turned slightly to toss it atop the pile of his own clothing. The veil followed, billowing softly in its descent.

  He touched the braids knotted at her nape. She seemed to relax, and he spread his fingers through the knot, loosening it. Then he partially combed out her braids with his fingers and permitted himself an “Ahh” of satisfaction at the feel of her hair in his hands. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her neck. He murmured, “No knives here that I can see.”

  He raised one of her arms so that he could untie the laces that held together the front and back panels of her bliaut. This over-shift soon fell into a puddle at her feet, and then there was only her kirtle and the laces of one sleeve left to undo. He continued as if searching for hidden weapons. He commented, “Only curves. No sharp points.” He held up her wrist to unlace her sleeve. When the laces were free, he pulled the kirtle over her head, causing her hair to tumble and tangle in disorder down her back. He tossed the gown atop the circlet and veil.

  She stood before him in her light shift, the outline of her body visible beneath the transparent cloth. He had become impatient. He thought that undressing her was as much a waste of time as dancing with her. He eyed the neckline and knew that he could strip it from her with the force of one finger.

  She must have read the look in his eyes, for she rasped quietly, “Don’t rip it.” She paused and met his eyes. “Please.” Her hands came to the ribbon at her breasts, and she began to fumble with it.

  He reined in his impatience. He lifted his hands to hers and pulled the ribbon. As slowly as he was able, he pushed the shift from her shoulders so that it lay with the bliaut at her feet. His eyes swept her naked beauty. His hands did the same. He paused to reconsider his predilection for hips and caressed her breasts at length, marveling in their shape and feel. He bent to kiss their tips. He swirled his tongue over milky pink roses and sucked gently. He had the errant, unworthy, wholly delicious thought that he had been too hasty in denying the need for the bedding ceremony. He would have dearly loved to see the look on Senlis’s face upon beholding Gwyneth’s body. Still, he hardly needed or cared for the approval of a male audience to know the value of what he was holding and touching, kissing and caressing.

  He placed her hands on his shoulders, ran his palms from her armpits down her sides to come to rest briefly on her hips then continued over her buttocks. He pressed her to him, groaning in anticipation. He leaned into her farther, traced the backs of her thighs to the tender underside of her knees, then back up and over her spine to her shoulders and across her arms, which were stretched around his neck. His hands held hers, his elbows raised and propped on her shoulders.

  He nuzzled both sides of her neck. Then he bent his lips to hers. “So far, I’ve discovered no fearsome weapons concealed on your person,” he said, “but I’ve one last place to look.” The kiss she gave him was almost what he wanted. “Can you guess where?” he asked.

  She blushed and shook her head.

  He moved against her, nudged her legs apart with his knee. He dropped his arms to her waist to support her. “Afraid to guess, my lady?” he said, frankly taunting.

  She gasped, but met him taunt for taunt. “Show me.”

  He did. He dropped down on his knees before her. He bent his head to place one cheek, then the other, against her abdomen, and stretched his neck against the fine triangle of curls at the apex of her thighs. Involuntarily the thought, daughters, came to him, and he was pleased. He raised his head so that his lips and nose were at her waist. He was intoxicated by the feel of her skin and her scent. The top of his head grazed the full curves of her breasts, then he rose to his feet and moved one hand behind her, boldly splaying it over her buttocks. The other hand he placed delicately, but unhesitatingly, at the front of her thighs. He pushed his fingers between them, gliding them over her, pausing a moment at the opening that existed for him. He found it dry.

  He perceived another problem now, a different one than he ordinarily encountered, for he had never had experience with unwilling or unready women. His own desire was surging and might have, under other circumstances, lost its direction in frustration and found outlet in violence; and if he had not already been attuned to her fe
ar, he might have determined that her coldness was the one flaw in the jewel that was his wife. However, this night he felt protected by the Norns. He had been blessed by the three weird women and felt guided by them and inspired by them.

  Again, he knew just what to do. He kissed her sweetly. He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. “I’m reassured that no sharp knives await me,” he said, “but there may be other dangers in store.” He laid her down on her back upon the bed and stretched out next to her on his side. He arranged her legs so that her knees were bent, her feet flat on the bed and near her buttocks, her legs spread a fraction. “I need for you to clarify a story.”

  “A story?”

  He smiled a little and propped his head in his right hand. With his left, he began to move his fingers lightly from her neck to her breasts to her abdomen. “The other evening, you told me about the god Tyr.”

  Her eyes were open, and she looked at him warily. “The one who was supposed to treat his wife well.”

  He slanted her a pointed glance. “Exactly.” His fingers stroked her abdomen and moved to the inside of her thighs, up to her knees, one at a time, and back down again. His hand came to rest atop the golden triangle of curls. “You told me the story of how Tyr lost his hand.”

  “I did.” Her voice was cautious.

  His fingers began to move in small circles. “You told me that the giant wolf, Fenrir—the child of the god Loki and an evil giantess, I believe—seemed harmless at first and was allowed by the gods to wander free. Is that right?”

  “That’s right,” she said, curious.

  He slipped his fingers between her legs and touched her intimately. Then, before her very wide eyes, he brought his fingers to his lips and wet them with his tongue. He touched her again, this time with very different effect.

  “But then Fenrir grew so fierce,” he continued, “that the Norns warned he would cause Odin’s death if something was not done. Now the gods could not pollute the sacred ground of Asgard by simply killing Fenrir, so they had to devise a way to restrain him. Is that right?”