Simon’s Lady

by Julie Tetel Andresen

  “You have no faith in me,” Beresford complained.

  “At least admit that the situation looked grave!” Senlis said.

  “I will admit no such thing,” Beresford returned. “The man had no skill.”

  “So it might have looked to you!” Senlis replied. “To us, it looked rather different! Hardly anyone has spoken of anything since. Why, not a few moments ago, Lancaster pointed out—”

  Beresford eyed his friend measuringly. “Perhaps you find this subject interesting. I do not. You perceive that we are headed to this table here, at some remove from what will be the center of activity. I have no wish for idle chatter this evening.”

  Senlis took no offense at this rebuff. Instead, he laughed and said, “Not this evening or any evening! That is why I propose to join you for supper—to ward off idle chatter that is sure to come your way!” Senlis turned to Gwyneth and bowed. “That is, if, my lady, you are agreeable to my presence?”

  When Senlis straightened, the look in his beautiful blue eyes was complex, yet communicative. Gwyneth saw in their depths a gentle retreat. She saw an acknowledgment of noble and masculine love for her husband. She saw a chivalrous regret that his interest in her could not go beyond friendship.

  “Of course, Sire Senlis,” she accepted graciously, “you must certainly sup with us. Here at this end, then, next to me.”

  The meal was soon presented. Gwyneth hardly tasted it, for she was too aware of the force of Beresford’s presence to take notice of anything else. Senlis did the job he had taken upon himself and very smoothly deflected all unwanted attentions from Beresford. He maintained any number of idle, uninteresting conversations with the great variety of courtiers who passed by. Only Cedric of Valmey slipped in under Senlis’s guard toward the end of the meal and got to Beresford through Gwyneth.

  Leaning against the table, Valrney propped an elbow on the table and leaned close. He smiled charmingly. “And what did you think of your husband’s joust, madam?”

  Gwyneth tried to maintain her composure, but her smile was tight. “I told him earlier that his performance was magnificent.”

  “Assuredly,” Valmey agreed. “However, I dare to wonder, as an admirer of your husband’s—” here Valmey flicked a glance at Beresford, who was watching him lazily“—whether his opponent was not truly as unskilled as Simon made him look. The poor man displayed no trace of Norman science.” Valmey paused. “Would you have an opinion on that, my lady, acquainted as you are with different practices? Did the poor man display the signs of Northumbrian science?”

  “I have no eye for the fine points,” Gwyneth replied, “like many others, I thought the unknown was Renaut of Breteuil.”

  “Renaut would have given Simon a better contest, I am sure,” Valmey said with liquid charm.

  “Which is why,” Beresford interrupted, “I was disappointed not to meet you in the sixth joust. Will your horse survive the injury it received?”

  Valmey drew himself up and regarded Beresford. “I have every hope.”

  Beresford nodded. “Then we are sure to meet in the future.”

  Valmey bowed his head first to Beresford, accepting his stark challenge, then to Gwyneth, as he courteously withdrew from their table.

  Senlis kept the others at bay. Beresford was relaxed and silently watchful of the movements in the hall. Gwyneth was breathless and expectant next to him, all jumping nerves. She was aware of his strong fingers fiddling with the wine cup, aware of his shifts upon the bench, aware of every breath he took, aware of the bones in his body and the layers of muscles covering them.

  At last, Beresford turned to her and said, “We shall leave.”

  Gwyneth blushed and blurted aloud her thoughts. “You wish to check me for knives?”

  Beresford’s gaze became more focused upon her. Her jumping nerves sizzled. For one abysmal moment, she thought he would refuse her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Of course,” he said, picking up her hand from the table. He brought it to his lips. “What else could I have meant?”

  Her blush deepened. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you?”

  To cover her embarrassment, she challenged, “Shall I make some suggestions as to what you might have meant?”

  He shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.” He turned her hand over and cradled it palm up in his own. He traced the outline of her fingers with his.

  Her nerves stretched taut. Her thoughts were in a whirl. Her emotions were in confusion. Her body knew just what it wanted. “But you, sire, are an advocate of plain speaking,” she said brazenly. “I would be happy to name the possibilities of what I thought you might wish to do when we leave, in light of today’s events.”

  He weighed her hand experimentally, as he had on a previous occasion. Looking at her, one heavy brow cocked, he said, “The more you talk like that, the more the possibilities narrow to one.” He rose and brought her to her feet. He drew her forward so that she was standing against him, their clasped hands lodged chest high. “Which was the one I had in mind from the beginning.” He put his other hand on her hip. “You, too, it seems.”

  A thrill shot through her. She wondered, with a surge of desire, how it happened, this evening, that he could be both blunt and subtle at the same time. Or was it always so with him, this man who knew what he wanted, but who did not always state it outright?

  Anger and pique mingled with her embarrassment and her desire. She wanted to get the better of him somehow. She did not move away. She pulled her head back to look up and asked defiantly, “Do you dare?”

  He smiled. “You have seen enough today to know what I dare. And this,” he added, “is different.”

  It was her turn to ask, “Is it?”

  He took the hand he held and moved it behind her back. He raised his other hand from her hip, grasped her free hand and joined it with the other. With one hand he manacled her wrists. His other hand he placed at her throat.

  “My lance is not faulty for this round,” he said.

  Her cheeks flamed. That was blunt enough. Or subtle enough. She did not know which, for her own mind was in a whirl. Before the misty, musky gauze of desire for him veiled her reason, she decided that he must like using the flat blade of danger to whet sharp edges of his desire and hers.

  “Now, if you’re done discussing the matter,” he said, bending toward her so he could speak low into her ear, “we shall quit the hall.”

  Without so much as a by-your-leave to Senlis or anyone else, he turned, drawing her with him. With one of her hands still in his, he walked ahead of her. He was taking her from the room, not ushering her out of it, as would the courteous lover.

  They were hardly two feet from the table when Walter Fortescue huffed, overloud, “Well, now! The most celebrated man of the hour leaves mid-feast and with not a word or even a bow to his neighbors! That’s Beresford start to finish, and speaking of finishes, I’m glad, don’t you know, that he’ll be ending the day as well as he started it! Glad to see, too, that his beautiful wife warmed up to the occasion. Oh, she was as pale as bleached flax after the joust! Wished to find words of praise for her husband, but was still choking from her fear. Ah, but she’s loosened up now, finding herself among Norman friends. Can’t think why Beresford was so dead set against the match when Adela first presented it to him!”

  At these cheerfully insensitive comments, Gwyneth could have died of embarrassment, if her own desire just then had not been so strong as to drown all other emotions. As for Beresford, he made no sign that he had heard Fortescue’s opinions other than to raise his arm dismissively, his back still to the group. He picked up his pace, but his haste did not spring from a wish to put distance between himself and Fortescue.

  Still holding Gwyneth’s hand, he preceded her out of the hall and along the passage to the wide stone steps. At the foot of the spiral he stopped and ushered her before him.

  She could not look at him as she passed in front of him. The sight of him
would have been too intense, for the feel of his presence had already engulfed her, and she could not imagine life or breath away from him. She lifted her skirts with one hand then placed her other against the newel post. When she began to mount, he placed a hand on her hip and followed her.

  Feeling him behind her, feeling his hand on her hip, she became increasingly breathless. They completed one turn of the spiral steps, then another, and suddenly she found herself flattened against the wall, his hands on either side of her. Her arms were flung back, hands splayed on the spiraling wall behind her. A thrill flashed up her spine, produced by the cool of the stone offset by the heat of her surprised desire. She shivered.

  “I don’t want to wait,” he said.

  His words were blunt. So were his actions. He was poised against her, one foot on the step below her, the other on the step below that. Their lips were level. His hands moved from the wall to cup her face. He leaned into her. The hilt of the sword at his belt pressed against her stomach, the sheath against her abdomen and thigh. He bent to kiss her.

  She turned her head away.

  He turned it back so that she faced him. He asked provocatively, “Do you object?”

  Her heart was beating furiously. She felt a strong wave of emotion wash through her. “Here?”

  He nodded then tried to kiss her once more.

  Again she broke the kiss and turned her head away. “And if I do object?” she managed.

  He placed his lips at her neck. “Then the nature of my pleasure in the act will change.”

  She was startled into looking back at him. “You mean to do it with or without my consent?”

  At that, he lowered his hand to the hem of her skirt and raised it so that his palm could grasp her bare thigh. He fumbled under her clothes, seeking the immediate goal of the pearl between her thighs. No sweet words, whispered low. No tickling touch, grazing up and down the insides of her thighs. No teasing forays between soft lips and wetness. No subtlety whatsoever.

  When he touched her jewel, his expression was smug. “I don’t need your consent, when I have your desire.”

  She gasped softly. She melted against him. Her knees buckled. She was not ready to concede. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  He flipped up his tunic and released himself from his chausses. Taking advantage of their staggered positions on the stairs, he moved in under her and between her legs.

  Hard muscle pressed at the soft opening of her thighs, touching off a quick spasm of pleasure inside her. A gasp, less soft this time, escaped her lips.

  “The guards,” she breathed, still trying to argue him out of this luscious, lascivious folly.

  “You’ll have to be quieter, madam, unless you want to bring them to witness.”

  With a smooth thrust, he folded himself into her. She accepted him easily, without constrictions, only desirous contractions and the hot-cold sensations of her spine sliding up and down the stone wall. The coupling was as intense as it was short. She flowered around him before he was finished, so his final pleasure extended her own. She was weak and happy, and sagged exhausted against him. She moaned sweetly into his neck. He supported her by cradling her buttocks in his hands.

  Still full within her, he began to move away from her.

  “No,” she said, this time for a very different reason.

  “Yes,” he countered, withdrawing. He rearranged his clothing, smoothed her skirts, turned her and propelled her gently up the next few steps. His hands rested heavily on her hips.

  “Why?” she asked, as she stumbled upward, her legs wobbly, her heart pounding and breaking and reforming itself to beat for him.

  “A courtesy,” he replied. “The opening salute.”

  She turned her head and gave him a glance filled with feminine lust. “Who won?”

  “I did.”

  She flamed for him, melting the last cold corner within her. She completed the upward spiral of the staircase and managed better the straight length of hallway, helped by his strong, firm hands on her hips.

  They clattered into his chamber. He shut the door behind them by leaning against it. He remained there, his back against the door. When she turned to face him, he folded his arms across his chest and eyed her measuringly.

  He threw down the gauntlet. “Make me want you.”

  Her eyes widened. She felt her courage momentarily falter, but knew that her continuing desire for him was strong enough. It would have to see her through.

  She took a deep breath and took the circlet and veil from her hair. She let them drop at her feet. His eyes did not follow their gentle descent. They remained pinned on her.

  She took a step toward him and unlaced the ties at the sides of her bliaut. She let it, too, flutter and fall at her feet. Then came her kirtle, with more difficulty, her hands and arms and breath and heart trembling. Another step closer, and her shift was at her feet. She stepped out of it, offering him her defenseless nakedness, shuddering with fear that he would finally defeat her with humiliating violence.

  He did not. He did not unfold his arms, and he did not take his eyes off her. He said, “I have always admired your courage.”

  The sound of his voice steadied her. He had issued her another challenge, one that turned her shuddering fear again to the poised edge of desire. She felt strong and feminine and capable of taking him again within her body, to complete his satisfaction.

  She put her hands bravely on his forearms and unfolded them, so that his hands were at his sides. She put her fingers to the buckle of his belt and unclasped it. The belt and sword clattered to the floor. She worked at his tunic, and he gave her no help. The shirt was easier. She had to kneel, in supplication, to uncross his garters and remove his shoes. The chausses tricked her and got caught on the most natural of impediments as she was removing them.

  She bit her lip and stepped back. “Did I hurt you?”

  He reached out and brought her against him. “You’ll have to try harder than that if you mean to hurt me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “That’s your decision, then.” He nodded acceptance. “Now what?”

  She considered. She put her hands lightly on his shoulders. They were wide and well muscled. She touched her fingers to the lance wound, which was clean and clotted and no threat to his life. She slid her hands down his chest to explore the smooth muscles there, seamed with old scars, and the ribbed muscles of his abdomen, similarly scarred. She slid her hands farther down and reached to touch the lance wound on his thigh. He flinched at that. She looked past his erection and saw that the second wound was not as clean. She bent to kiss the slightly swollen area around it.

  When she stood up again, she slipped her arms around his neck and touched her tongue to his ear. She whispered, “I want you under me and at my mercy, but I do not think I can carry you to the bed.”

  He easily carried her. Soon the bed covers had been thrown back and she was straddling him, slotting him into her and working her thigh muscles around him. Nothing separated her from him, and she rode him to the tip of his desire time and again. When she had given him everything, she gave even more. Finally, she met him body and soul and lay herself generously across him.

  Luxuriating against him, she wished to stay in the flow of the infinite by pouring out in words what was in her heart. With her new experience in the softer arts of speaking to a man, she decided this was the ideal moment for confession.

  She shifted and placed her hand on his chest to claim his attention. She began, “I want to tell you about the visitor I received yesterday and what happened at the joust— ”

  “Don’t,” he said, covering her mouth with his hand.

  Her heart lurched then sank. She must have misjudged her moment and abused the intimacy. She felt as wretched now as she had previously felt wonderful.

  She had not misjudged the moment, but rather the turmoil in Beresford’s breast. He had hoped to repeat the day’s victories this night in bed, but he had failed so completely t
hat, if he could have ripped out his heart to give it to her, signaling defeat, he would have. He had challenged her. She had met his challenge, just as separate parts of him hoped and feared she would, and she had conquered him with her body so completely that the parts of him had fused, thick-thewed, with love for her. He was wed now, all of him, muscle and sinew, blood and soul, to this woman in a way he had never felt, nor ever thought possible.

  He did not want to hear her lies, and so put his hand over her mouth. He could better bear the burden of his love, unmet by a reciprocal love, if she did not dishonor herself with falsehoods. He closed his eyes and surrendered himself to the whirling funnel of his emotions, which turned faster when he realized that he had prevented Langley from falsely, jealously denouncing Breteuil earlier in the day—and that Langley had been right.

  The pain of his wish that Gwyneth, like Langley, was not false was so great that he thought he would die from it. With his mind’s eye he searched for Valkyries, but knew they were not there. What he felt came from a new and fecund source, as fresh and generative as the beginning of the world, and far stronger than any magic wrought by the dying race of Norse gods.

  ****

  The night of mingling and merging lasted an infinite second. Beresford was awakened with the news that he was to be called away, this time to the north, toward Tutbury, but not as far as Northumbria. He received his orders with indifference. He had no wish to live apart from her, yet every moment with her was magnificent agony. It was just as well that he had no choice in the matter. The love of his heart belonged to Gwyneth; the loyalty of his muscles remained always at the service of King Stephen.

  He made lavish love to her one last time in the morning. He saw no reason to deny himself, for it was not as if he could rid himself of his love by spending his seed. In fact, the power of his love only seemed to increase with every mating. Yet such was the nature of his desire that he gladly accepted the possibility of more pain for the momentary satisfactions of touching her and kissing her and lodging himself within her and riding with her to the sun.