by Ling, Maria
"I know very little of the world," Clarice said. "But since God made it, I rejoice in every part of it."
"That's...a positive outlook." His hood still lay forward, dripping, concealing his face. She couldn't see his expression, but his tone nettled her.
"Including the rain," Clarice added, her voice sharpening.
"Excellent," Richard said as new clouds rolled up and the brief pallor of daylight vanished again under the gloom. "I expect you'll be singing praises to the Lord all the way to my own estate, then."
***
Well, Richard thought, they were here. Safe in his own house -- and it was his own house again, however tenuous his hold on it. He escorted his dripping wife upstairs to the main bedchamber, left her in the housekeeper's care, took a turn around the beloved old rooms, the outbuildings, the garden. Gave and received cheerful greetings, most of the men still remained. Too old for fighting, he'd left them behind when he garrisoned the castle, levied younger men from the farms and villages that dotted the estate. Most of them dead now, or blinded and castrated for siding with the wrong cause. He grieved for that, wished he could have prevented it, wished he'd not been fool enough to fight against the king. Not that it had seemed like folly at the time, with Miles and Robert of Gloucester bearing down on him like twin bulls, threatening to burn every field and house, butcher every man and child, rape every woman. He'd yielded to them, because he knew he could not stand against them and win, thrown his lot in with their cause and fought against his king. To be defeated, and spared -- he'd been lucky there, many had not been so fortunate -- and now granted another chance at favour. He ought to be on his knees rejoicing. No doubt that wife of his could have taught him some chants.
God, what a prig she was! He'd known an instant of hope, during that first meeting, he'd caught the lush shapes of her body under its fine dress, prickled at the spark in those gorgeous silvery eyes. But hope and desire both fell away during the journey, as he listened with weary boredom to her nunnish platitudes. So much for his fantasies of the marriage bed -- which he'd indulged in, truth be told, as he rode towards that dreary cloister.
Well, she was out of there now, and had it been him he'd have danced every step of the way since. But not her, no, she'd just sat there like a lump of clay, simpering and giving thanks for the chance to get soaked through and frozen. He'd been wet and cold enough, and at least he had the warmth of a horse under him. Whereas she --
God. It would be like bedding a fistful of mud.
Still, it would be a bedding.
He glanced aside at Ralph, who'd shadowed him throughout his tour of the buildings. Richard appreciated that, it made him less resentful of his other, grimmer, shadows. Once he'd disposed of the young prince, he'd be in a position to request that they withdraw. Unless they met with an accident first.
He let his mind dwell on that, momentarily, before shaking off the idea. Earls held grudges, he knew that from before. The mightier the man, the pettier his mind.
"What?" Ralph demanded -- startled, perhaps, by the glare Richard had felt creep onto his face.
"Nothing," Richard said. "Just a passing thought."
Ralph leaned closer. "Them?" He didn't tip his head, or in any way indicate the shadows, but his tone made it clear who he meant.
"Them," Richard confirmed. "I'll have to come up with a plan."
"I'll work on it," Ralph said.
"That's reassuring." Though it was, to a degree. "So... what do you think of my wife?"
"Pretty," Ralph said with decision. "How much did you say she was worth?"
"A hundred and forty marks."
"I meant the income from the estate."
"Oh, that. I don't recall."
"Of course you do."
He did. It was the one thought that had kept him going during that long dismal ride. "Thirty marks a year."
Ralph whistled. "Lucky bastard."
"Should reach to some new clothes," Richard conceded. "For both of us."
"Much appreciated."
"Well," Richard pointed out, "I'm not doing you a favour. I'll want your help with the prince."
Ralph laughed. "You can count on it. That's the best part of this whole escapade. I know him. Well, I've met him once."
"You have?" Richard pulled him into a corner. "Christ, man, why didn't you say so?"
"Didn't want the two sticks to hear." Ralph glanced around, spotted the shadows lounging by the pond. "I don't suppose we could shove them in."
"Not deep enough," Richard said. "Pity. Nice idea, though. Tell me more about our quarry."
"Arrogant, vain, and not too bright," Ralph summed up. "Though he knows warfare -- even more so by now, I'll warrant. He's had time enough to study his father's technique."
Geoffrey of Anjou, the scourge of Normandy. Richard nodded.
"Don't know why he'd come this way," Ralph went on. "Too far out of his path. My guess is that it's a ruse."
"Get the king looking for him in the wrong place, while he sneaks through elsewhere?"
Ralph nodded. "He's Geoffrey's son, that means he won't give up easily. Right now he looks beaten, with his main supporters dead and his mother withdrawn to Normandy. But I'll wager he's sounding out his opportunities."
"Maybe." Richard pondered. It made good sense. "Or he could stay in Normandy and be his father's right hand."
"But always second," Ralph pointed out. "And Geoffrey never tolerates being second to anyone. If Henry's like him at all -- "
Richard saw where his friend was going. "He'll take a shot at the crown of England, if he thinks there's a chance. I think you've hit it. So. What do we do?"
"We assume he won't come," Ralph said. "But we make a big display of assuming he will. Set all we've got -- er, by that I mean all you've got -- to catch him. Show what loyal subjects we are, let the sticks carry luminous reports back to Stephen. And then relax, once it becomes clear that Henry was never here."
Richard nudged a tuft of grass with his boot. Damp soaked through the worn toe and darkened the pale-scuffed leather. "And if he does come?"
"Catch him and turn him over to the sticks," Ralph said. "Or kill him. Whichever you think will please Stephen most."
***
CHAPTER 3
Clarice twirled in her dress. She did love wearing it. And she must pass the time somehow, her husband was still walking about his estate and appeared to have forgotten he had a bride to bed.
Which suited her. She didn't mind waiting. The longer the better, in fact.
She ate another piece of apple tart, savoured every honey-sweet bite. Butter and wheat and the lush juicy squish of cooked apple, she couldn't get enough of it. Convent food never tasted like this. And the cream, thick and rich and melting in her mouth. Oh, it was glorious.
"Be careful," the housekeeper said. A sturdy, sensible woman with cheerful eyes, who seemed to regard Clarice as a natural ally. "You don't want a stomach-ache. Especially not today."
"It's so delicious," Clarice protested. "I don't believe it could ever do harm."
"Well, you think that and then it does. Did you never overeat as a child?"
"No," Clarice admitted. "The nuns never let me."
"Poor girl," the housekeeper said, and spooned out some more cream.
Clarice ate it eagerly, but then began to feel queasy. "Thank you so much," she managed. "I am quite full now."
"Good," the housekeeper said. "You could do with more flesh on you. And you've got some colour back, too. I'll send the maid up to help you undress, and tell the master you're ready."
"Oh." Clarice swallowed. She really did feel sick now. But of course, it had to be so.
She couldn't fool herself that he'd let her be. Men didn't marry women and then leave them to sleep alone. Apparently. Though from what she'd been told, she couldn't see why anyone would crave such a strange and disgusting thing.
She spent a miserable half hour being stripped and washed and combed, and finally arranged in her shift at the
edge of the bed. Where she waited, tense and confused, until she heard men's voices below and men's steps on the stairs. Then fear seized her, and she dived in and clutched the cover tight over her body.
They came in together, all four of them. The earl's men noted her presence on the bed, glanced around the room, nodded and withdrew. The friend -- Ralph, she'd heard her husband call him, clapped Richard on the shoulder, wished him good luck in a voice that grated on her nerves, and then followed. Which left her alone with her husband, whom she had not dared to look at closely as yet. Not that she'd had much of a chance, he'd either been shrouded in a hooded cloak or absent entirely.
But she saw him now, as he moved about the room, slowly stripped down to his shirt and laid the clothes carefully aside. It wasn't lack of care had worn them, she thought, he really was as impoverished as he looked. Which she didn't mind, as long as he had a home and food for her. For all her pious dedication to the divine will, she didn't wish to sleep cold and hungry in a muddy ditch. But she wished he'd married her for some other reason than money.
She'd considered him handsome at first, and he was, she supposed. Dark straight brows, a clear and open face, worried brown eyes. Light of build, but with fine shoulders and a strong chest. Delicate hands -- rough and chafed with use, but deft of touch, he flicked the fabric of tunic and hose into folds with barely a movement. She shivered a little at the thought of that touch on her own skin, of his mouth seeking hers. A firm mouth. Determined. He looked like a boy grown too fast into a man.
He turned at last, sat down on the bed by her knees, hesitated. Shaggy brown hair caught the glow of evening light through the window and tinged bronze.
"Are you comfortable?" he asked, and she felt ridiculous, because he sounded as tense and worried as she was. Neither of them wanted to be here, it was all duty, she could only hope it would be over soon and not too painful.
"Yes," she said. "Thank you, my lord."
His face darkened as if with anger. "Oh, please," he said. "Call me Richard, at least."
The tone riled her. After all, he'd made this choice. She'd had no part of it, had never so much as been consulted. If he didn't care to bed her, he'd have done better not to marry her at all.
"Richard," she said obediently, and hid her resentment as best she could. "A royal name."
"One of several." The anger -- if it was that -- cleared, and a faint smile lit in its place. "Of course, I'd forgotten. You have a family connection there."
"My uncle told you?"
"No, the earl. Well, actually, his representative. He sent two men to keep an eye on things for a while. Make sure you're well treated and so on. Which I hope to prove." He picked at the cover -- she clutched it tighter at first, imagining he meant to yank it off her, but his fingers only traced the weave. Delicate fingers, she could feel their light touch all over her body. Which made her shiver, but not with fear.
"I won't hurt you," Richard said. He frowned. "Well, I'll try my best anyway."
"I know," Clarice said. She wished she knew how to put him at his ease. Or herself, for that matter. "The nuns and the priest have explained my duty."
"Right," Richard said in a grim tone. "Duty." He glanced at the door, as if seeking escape. "I don't suppose either of us is likely to enjoy this much."
"You at least had the choice," Clarice flared up. "I was simply disposed of, to a man I do not know. Whereas you made the decision yourself."
He stared at her, startled. "I suppose you were," he admitted. "I hadn't thought of it that way."
"Start now," Clarice snapped, and then caught herself. This was not the model of a loyal and biddable wife the priest had talked of. And the nuns, too, though they had mainly stressed the need for daily prayers and regular confession, especially if her husband should command her to break church law. Which they were rather vague about the details on, other than to make hazy reference to 'any practice that might be considered unnatural'.
"Sorry," Richard said. "I don't suppose you'd feel any better about it if I told you I didn't exactly have a free choice either."
"No," Clarice said, lost in her own resentment, and then blinked at him. "You didn't?"
"Not exactly," Richard said. "Your guardian and the earl his overlord exerted some pressure on me. They're both powerful men." Richard hesitated. "Compared to me, anyway. I am not among the first men in the realm. You'll have gathered as much, I don't doubt."
"Neither powerful nor wealthy," Clarice said.
Richard flinched. "Is it that obvious?"
"Yes. Well, who would choose to wear clothes like that?" She nodded to the pile on the nearby stool, then subjected his shirt to fastidious scrutiny. It was thin and stained, but it smelled clean. "So why did they wish us to marry?"
"I'm not sure." His eyes evaded hers. He was lying, she thought. "But since they wished it so strongly, I had little option but to comply." An odd expression crossed Richard's face, almost of guilt. "Not that I'm sorry," he added in an unconvincing tone.
Oh God, he hated her already, and she hadn't even done anything wrong. Except for speaking to him with such disrespect, that was unforgivable. But she wasn't sorry, Clarice thought rebelliously. He could beat her if he chose, until then she'd speak as she wished to.
"Well, then." Richard heaved a sigh. "I suppose we should get this over with." He hesitated. "Unless you really can't abide the thought."
Temptation hovered before her. Then the idea of those gentle hands returned with irresistible force.
"I am ready to submit to my husband as God requires," Clarice said, keeping her eyes lowered. Not too low, or she'd be staring at his crotch. Chest height, that was about right. The shirt hung open, he'd loosened the knot at his throat, she caught a glimpse of bare skin and dark curled hair. His weight rested deep into the mattress by her knees, she could imagine it over her --
Desire flared up within her, hot and strong, overturned all her prim devotion. She caught her breath at the surge of it, held on to the cover as to the boards of a boat rocked by the sea.
"That's good to know," Richard said wearily. "Now you've got me all excited, too."
He leaned over, touched his lips to hers, rested his weight on one elbow and used his free hand to stroke her arm. A little clumsy, as if he wasn't used to touching. Which he probably wasn't, Clarice reflected, not a woman at any rate, as she had never before touched a man.
Except that didn't sit well with what she knew of her uncle.
Though it wasn't only her uncle who had chosen him.
Richard tugged the cover out of her hands. She released it, unwillingly, she'd valued the protection it afforded. Now only linen lay between the two of them, his shirt and her shift, both long enough to conceal what must be hidden, yet thin enough that she could feel the heat from him as he slid his body over hers. She longed to raise her arms and wrap them around him, hold him close and press her body up against his -- but that would be wanton, she chastened herself. So she lay still, unmoving, while he kissed her again. Waited for something beyond his weight on her, pressing air from her lungs. But he didn't seem to be in any hurry, just stroked her arm and leaned so hard on her she lashed out on instinct, fought him off and drew in a deep desperate breath.
"Sorry," Richard said. "That was all wrong, wasn't it?" He sat up again, shoulders slumped.
"You're heavier than you look," Clarice gasped, honesty overcoming decorum.
"Not sure how to take that." He wasn't looking at her, just stared at the floor. Then rose, with a sudden decisive movement, circled the bed and got in under the cover on the other side. "Never mind," he said. "We don't have to."
"We do," Clarice protested. "It's God's will." Frustration echoed through her voice, she had a wild idea of clambering over him, straddling his body and -- Lord, she must not think such things. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.
"Not if you really don't want to," Richard said.
Clarice fought down her annoyance, strove to be mild. "God wishes us to -- "<
br />
"Will you shut up about God?" Richard snarled. "I never asked Him into my bed."
Clarice fell silent out of pure shock.
"Look," Richard said. "I understand. You were raised in convent. Pure and clean and without so much as a carnal thought. I get it. That's just not the wife I would have chosen."
Clarice sat up. Rage flooded her, too hot and fierce to withstand. "Then why did you marry me?" she shouted at him. "Why choose me?"
"I didn't." Richard closed his eyes. He looked tired and vulnerable. Her anger waned. "It was a gambling matter. Over a game of chess. And your uncle and the earl held me to it. Otherwise I wouldn't have gone within a mile of you."
Clarice sat absolutely still. Cold flooded her now, as if icy streamlets ran under her skin. "You won me on a bet?"
"I did," Richard said. "It wasn't my idea, either, so you can stop shouting at me. I went along with it thinking I could pass you on to some other man, but the earl and your uncle decided against. Why, I don't know." His voice wavered a little at that point, as if he well knew but chose not to tell her. "And sent a couple of men along to make sure I did as I'd been told. So we're stuck with each other now. I'm sorry about that, too."
He didn't even look at her.
"You don't sound sorry," Clarice said.
"Well, I am. And much as I'd love to do my duty to God, you're not exactly exciting. So I'll get some sleep at least. Good night."
Clarice went on staring at him. "You have a duty to me, too."
Richard opened his eyes at last. "It's easy for you," he said. "All you have to do is lie there. I have to do more than that. And I can't. Not with a piece of clay like you, anyway. So. Sweet dreams. Or holy dreams, anyway. I dare say you'll get those without any trouble at all." He turned his back on her.
Clarice slumped onto the bed, lay there staring up at the ceiling with eyes that stung.
She should have known. It had been ridiculous of her to suppose that he wanted her at all. For any purpose. Because no one ever had wanted her, not her parents, nor her uncle, nor the earl. They'd passed her around from hand to hand, while the nuns raised her to be yet another dedicate to God, cool and indifferent and detached from the world.
