It was when she was alone with Aldith in Baron Alain’s private chamber at the rear of the hall, now to be their conjugal chamber for the long years that stretched ahead, that Gisela thought achingly of her dead mother. Would she have held her close, comforted her fears? As she undid the tasselled ties of her undertunic, Gisela looked anxiously towards Aldith who had fulfilled that function for her over the years and who came now to her, smiling, offering a final cup of wine.
“This will warm you.”
Gisela drained it obediently and climbed into the marriage bed made fragrant with clean linen and the scent of herbs to guarantee fertility. The fire in the hearth blazed up brightly but Gisela shivered, though she knew she was not really physically cold. Aldith bent to pull up the furred coverlet tightly round her.
“Be blessed in this marriage bed, with happiness and fine, strong children,” she murmured formally.
As she made to withdraw, Gisela reached out and drew her close.
“You have been as a mother to me now I am a woman, even more than you were as my wet nurse. I love you, Aldith, and I am glad you are with me now…”
Aldith’s grey eyes glimmered with tears as she hugged her former charge. “Your mother would have been very proud of you this day,” she said hoarsely. “Remember tonight can make or mar this marriage, but you know that, I’m sure.” She kissed her tenderly upon the forehead in blessing and stole from the chamber.
Alain de Treville came in soon after Aldith left her and Gisela was glad that he had not left her time to dread the coming intimacies of the night. His step was firm and determined and he came to the bed and stood looking down at her.
“You are warm enough?”
She had pulled up the coverlet defensively and now felt somewhat foolish and cowardly.
“Yes,” she murmured, glancing away from his searching gaze.
“Your father has been carried to his chamber. I think he has taken just a little too much wine.”
“He is consoling himself for the loss of his daughter. He is no habitual drunkard.”
“I know that well enough.”
She had watched her husband throughout the feast and noticed he had drunk sparingly. She wondered if he had drunk more immoderately after she had withdrawn, but she doubted it. There were no signs that he had overindulged and she doubted that he ever needed wine to bolster up his courage. He was too composed, as ever, too sure of himself; in her eyes a little more than human and, so, intimidating.
Kenrick, she thought, with a sudden pang, would have come to her tonight excited, a little awkward and more than a trifle drunk on the mead he had so loved.
Her husband had now turned from her and was beginning to undress. She heard the betraying chink as his sword belt was unbuckled and placed upon a stool near the bed. She did not look at him. She could hear the rustle of cloth and the susurration of fine damask as he drew his elegant overtunic over his head, then, determinedly, she opened her eyes and watched as he stood in fine linen drawers and short undertunic, still turned away from her.
The muscles of his back rippled beneath the cloth, then he had divested himself of everything and stood in the power of his manhood, fully revealed to her. The firelight flickered over taut ribs, the spare, perfectly proportioned body, the broad shoulders and slim hips.
He came towards the bed and she could not avert her eyes from his manhood, but neither could she draw back the coverlet in simple welcome as she had promised herself she would do.
He bent and pulled back the coverlet, revealing her nakedness, and she drew back with a barely restrained cry.
He frowned and, as she sought desperately to cover herself, deliberately restrained her. She gave a faint sob.
He said harshly, “I suppose you are wishing it was Kenrick of Arcote who comes to your bed tonight.”
His words affected her like a douche of cold water. She sat up straight and glared back at him.
“Kenrick of Arcote was a friend of—my father. You dare to imply…”
“I saw you—in the wood together.” His dark eyes never left hers and they widened in part shock, part terror.
“I—I do not understand. There was nothing between us of which I would be ashamed…”
“You were in his arms.” He gave a little cynical smile. “I was on my way to make you a gift of Hereward. I rode into the clearing—and there you were, totally absorbed in each other, unaware of any passerby, I imagine.” His lip curled. “I suppose it was fortunate I was so near. I saw the smoke very quickly, you see, and was able to come to your rescue immediately.”
Her brain was racing, her eyes darkened and huge in her pale face.
“Knowing that—that he was very dear to me—you continued to press for this marriage?”
“I wanted you.”
Her breath was coming uncommonly fast. “You believed that—that—there in the wood…”
He shrugged. “I don’t know what to believe except that—I do not think your father was made aware of the situation.”
“You have not—told him?”
“No, why should I? Kenrick of Arcote is dead.”
It was a brutal statement and she covered her face with her hands.
He stood looking down at her and, at last, he climbed into bed beside her. She retreated from him as far as she could and he reached out and took her by the shoulder.
“I should not have spoken to you like that, tonight of all nights, but your instinctive rejection of me made me aware of…”
She tried to push against him but he took possession of her two hands and held her hard to his body.
“Whatever you might think, whatever you and he did together, I still want you and today in the church—you became mine.”
“We did nothing together but kiss,” she said wildly. “I met him there alone and secretly for the first time because…”
“Because?”
Her tongue froze to the roof of her mouth. How could she explain that her meeting with Kenrick was a desperate attempt to escape this marriage, this very moment—?
He said mockingly, “You met him in secret to discuss my offer of marriage. Was that it?”
“Yes,” she said defiantly. “Kenrick loved me and…”
“Then why had he not declared himself before that?”
“He—he—was waiting for the right moment. He…” She broke off on another faint sob. Why, oh, why had Kenrick waited? Because he had been afraid to face the wrath of his mother? Had he been so weak? She was so very close to the man who held her now. He would not have been deterred by any opposition, not even by the will of the King himself. He would have taken what he wanted and risked losing everything.
His hold was painful yet she no longer sought to struggle. He would make her his, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it—yet she would hold back from him her true self.
He had been granted rights over her body by Holy Mother Church and she could not deny him, but he could never make her love him. She would be his dutiful wife, control his household efficiently, submit to him in bed, bear his children, but she would never be really his. Her small teeth gritted together as if in painful determination to resist his possession of her.
He was furious with himself that he had antagonised her at this vital moment. She had angered him by her instinctive withdrawal. He had never had need to force a woman. Proud dames at the King’s court and whores in the army baggage train he had taken for his pleasure, though without declaration of love. He had never deceived a woman or taken any unwillingly.
Now he cursed his own stupidity that he had frightened her, yet his control over his rising passion was fast deserting him. He released his hold on her and she fell back against the pillows. The firelight glimmered on her lovely ivory form and desire clawed at his vitals. God, how he wanted her!
At first, when the determination to make her his wife had been mooted in his talk with Rainald de Tourel, he had thought his need for a suitable bride to enhance his role in the
shire had been the motivating factor. Now he knew that the sight of her in another’s arms had inflamed him beyond reason. She was his, and, by God and the Holy Saints, he would take her tonight and force her to dismiss any other man from her thoughts.
He put out a hand and twisted a long tress of her curling hair. It was silky and scented with rosemary and lavender, as her pale smooth flesh.
“Come now, chérie,” he murmured throatily. “I will make you forget…” He pressed his lips to the beating pulse in her throat.
She could not fight him and win, she knew that. She had to submit. She steeled herself and, this time, did not withdraw from his lean body as he drew her close again, though she became so breathless with apprehension and untamed excitement that she feared she would die. Would he punish her for what he considered her deception? Yet she had never allowed him to think that she loved him, even liked him. He could not blame her for having wished to escape from a marriage she had thought abhorrent.
She knew that losing her maidenhood would be painful. Now she feared he could be exceptionally harsh with her in his present mood or even think she was no longer a virgin and treat her with scant consideration. She determined to make no outcry or protest whatever he did.
In actual fact, he exerted supreme control over his own desire and forced himself to treat her gently. He could feel her violent trembling as he lowered himself upon her supine form and bent to gently kiss her forehead.
“Doucement, doucement,” he murmured softly. “There is no need to fear. I have sworn to make you love me. Allow me to teach you the delights of love. There is no need for haste.”
She felt his lips lightly touch the more sensitive parts of her body; first her throat, the nape of her neck, her breasts, then ventured lower to her taut belly and groin. She was very close to tears yet the sensations were first delicately gentle, then tantalising until, despite herself, her body arched against his and she gave a little moan of half-pleasure, half-fear.
His lips closed on hers as they had done in the office, this time scorchingly demanding, and her own opened to receive the kiss she had dreamed of since her woman’s body had begun to waken from childhood.
When he entered her at last it was painful, certainly, but he had waited until she was ready and the pain was swept away on the overwhelming tide of her response. She had never conceived of such ecstasy and, afterwards, she lay shuddering with pleasure within his arms.
He gave the lightest chuckle of triumph and she sought to turn her face from him, but he bent and, taking her chin in his strong, lean fingers, he whispered, “Chérie, how right I was to believe that you could respond with such ardour, though I feared it might take longer for you to learn so thoroughly the delights of love.”
She wanted him to take her again and burned with shame at the thought. He had been a gentle, considerate lover and she had found that, despite her resolve to withhold her responsive emotions, this man could take her to the heights of passion. She had been so totally unprepared.
She had known what must be endured, dreaded the embrace of this man who had entered her life an arrogant, antagonistic stranger and, in so short a time, had come to dominate her existence, yet she realised, as heat suffused her body, that she would now ache for his caresses. She had thought him to be cold, restrained, a demanding master who would take his own pleasure without considering her needs, but now knew herself mistaken.
Alain de Treville was possessive, dominant, even tyrannical, but his blood was as hot as the knights she had dreamed of, that he himself had sung of only days ago. He lay at her side now, spent, his arm tightening round her, signifying his possession even as he slept. She leaned over slightly and looked at him as his chest rose and fell rhythmically in contented sleep.
Her own lips curved in a sudden rush of tenderness. Perhaps, after all, her life here at Allestone would not be totally bereft of the pleasures she had dreamed of. Aldith had spoken truth. This night could well have marred her whole life, if her remembrance of it had been as horrifying as she had feared.
Whatever occurred between them now, she would always give thanks that he had spared her humiliation and pain—and despite the knowledge of her feelings for Kenrick of Arcote that she had tried, so desperately, to keep hidden from him.
Chapter Six
Gisela knelt by Kenrick’s tomb, her tears spilling onto the slab of marble which had been hastily set over it. Soon an image maker would be summoned from the West country, where such skills were prized, to fashion a statue of the young lord brought so untimely to his grave.
Gisela had not found the courage to visit the tomb until today. She had not attended the funeral, as Lady Eadgyth had requested; and since Alain de Treville’s blunt statement that he had seen Kenrick and herself together in the wood, she had baulked at angering her husband by coming near the church. Today she had been assured that Lord Alain was well away from the village, and with Aldith she had managed to venture out without disclosing her destination.
“Kenrick,” she whispered, brokenly. “Oh, my dear, do not think I will ever forget you. I loved you well and our happy days together will always live in my heart, but now I am wed and my duty is to my husband and—I think—I believe—that, given time, I can come to love this man.”
She broke off in confusion. It seemed so strange and wrong that she should be confiding her innermost thoughts and fears to the shade of the man who had been her constant companion. Was this a betrayal of her former love? She prayed that Kenrick would understand her desperate need and not condemn her.
The days following her marriage had been hectic since the Christmas feasting had been on them almost immediately. In her bewildered state of mind Gisela had found that comforting, for she had had little time to consider her chaotic feelings about her husband.
The day after her marriage she had expected that Alain de Treville would perhaps rise early and be off riding, leaving her to come to terms with her new state of wifehood. When she had woken, he had indeed left her. As the wintry sun forced its way between the cracks in the still-closed shutters, she had risen up on one elbow to stare blearily at the place where he had lain beside her. She had missed the warmth of his body instantly and yet was relieved that, for the moment, she would not have to meet his eyes.
Aldith had come later and been completely satisfied by the marks on the soiled sheets that informed her that her mistress was now true wife indeed and lady of Allestone. She had questioned Gisela with one simple look and smiled happily when Gisela flushed darkly and hid her head, then raised her eyes to her former nurse.
“It was—very good for me,” she confessed huskily. “Has my husband left the castle so early?”
“No, no, mistress.” Aldith laughed back at her. “Leave his new-made wife so soon on the first day of their married life together? No, he is even now chivvying the servants to prepare breakfast and to harry the remainder of the men out of the hall so you might eat together in peace.”
“Oh!” Gisela was somewhat disconcerted. She had hoped for some little time alone to reorganise her thoughts. “He is expecting me down in the hall soon now?”
Aldith nodded and hastened to provide warm water for Gisela’s toilet and to lay out her morning clothes upon the bed.
“Where is Hereward?” Gisela said as she struggled into her gown.
“Sigurd took care of him last night since Huon was in attendance upon Lord Alain. He has taken him out into the bailey.”
Gisela’s conscience had smitten her somewhat when she had suddenly remembered her pet, who had been used to sleeping upon her bed with her and Aldith. In her anxious concern, when she had first left the marriage feast, she had given no thought to the puppy. Now she was relieved to hear he had been well cared for.
She hastened to descend to the hall, determined not to keep her lord waiting.
He, too, was dressed plainly this morning in a tunic of dark brown wool over grey chausses, cross-gartered. As yet he had not donned mail so he seemed in no hur
ry to be off out on manor business and to take his leave of her. His dark hair was damp and swept well back from his freshly shaven face and she saw that already he had bathed.
He stood up to greet her. “Come to the fire. The morning is very cold.”
She joined him near the hearth fire where one of the smaller trestles had been set for them.
“I left you to sleep on. I had one or two matters of business to discuss with my seneschal.”
She nodded, glancing at him shyly then down at the table, which appeared to be groaning under the weight of food. There was fine white manchet bread, cold meats and cheese, buttermilk and ale, even some of the last of the autumn apples. She drew a swift breath even as a serving wench came hastening in through the screen doors with a tray on which smoked basins of oaten porridge.
“I can never eat even a fraction of this,” she protested, but he laughed.
“I think you will find you are more hungry than you think,” he said. Already he was tucking into his own bowl of porridge, after first sprinkling it with salt from the ornate salt cellar that had graced the table in pride of place at their marriage feast.
He pointed to it, with a faint grimace. “A marriage gift from the shire reeve.”
“Oh,” she said, “it is very fine.”
He shrugged. “I might have been better pleased with a box of good grey goose-feathered arrows.”
There was no answer to that and she helped herself to honey and began to eat her own porridge. He was right. She was, indeed, hungry, and recollected, with a flush which she felt mounting from her throat to her cheeks, that she had once overheard one of their grooms remarking that he always felt exceptionally hungry after indulging in bed sport.
She ate her way appreciatively through porridge, bread and meat and even a rather wizened apple. He watched her over the rim of his ale cup, then, as she wiped her fingers upon a napkin one of the servants had placed ready and sat back a trifle guiltily, his lips curled into a grin of approval.
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