The Deed

by Lynsay Sands

  His lady wife had fallen asleep almost before she had fully laid her head on her pillow, proving to him that she had been exhausted. He, however, had not been so fortunate. Despite the exhaustion that had claimed him quickly after her delicate snores had filled the room, Amaury had been unable to turn off his mind and fall into the deep sleep that had been waiting to claim him. It was his thoughts, of course. Had he been able to control their lecherous meanderings, he might have gained some rest. Instead, he had lain there staring at her sleeping form and imagining what it would be like to make love to her . . . properly . . . without two or three dozen people outside the door cheering them on as if they ran a race.

  He had finally drifted into a restless sleep just before the dawn, only to awake shortly afterward when the sound of the chamber door closing quietly announced his wife's leaving their room. She had returned moments later to catch him up, swaying on his feet as he tried to reach his own clothes. She had, of course, immediately ordered him back to bed. Amaury would have balked at her ordering him about . . . had he not been about to fall down anyway. As it was, he had barely managed to arrange his collapse so that he fell across the bed. Emma had helped him lie down properly in the bed, flushing and turning her face away from his nakedness, then had informed him she would fetch him some tea.

  Despite his arguments that he was not tired and need not stay abed, he had found himself dozing off shortly after she had left him, only to be awakened moments later by Lord Rolfe. Emma's cousin had stopped in to inform him of his and the bishop's leave-taking. Amaury had listened to that information with a distinct lack of interest, but managed a somewhat sincere "God's speed and safe journey" before Rolfe had then turned the conversation to his cousin. Amaury had quickly deduced the real reason behind the man's visit as Rolfe set about lecturing him on how to treat her, adding dire threats of the consequences should he abuse her in any way.

  He had been mightily angered at first by Rolfe's belief he had the right to interfere, but then Amaury had reined in his temper enough to admit to himself that had the positions been reversed, he most likely would have done the same thing. That being the case, rather than grab up the sword beside the bed and hack the man down where he had stood wagging his finger at him, Amaury had merely closed his eyes and feigned sleep halfway into the lecture. It had taken a few moments and a couple of snorts and snores before Lord Rolfe had noted his feigned sleep; then he had muttered a few disgruntled words and left him to it. But it was a mere moment later when his friend Blake had then burst into the room.

  At first, Amaury had been glad of his friend's arrival, thinking to ask him to have Little George take some men out and see to the removal of his problem of bandits in the woods, being careful, of course, not to harm anyone carrying a bow. He had no wish to repay the man who had saved his life with death as a gift. But before he could even utter a greeting, Blake had blurted out the conversation he had had at the table with Emma and begun ranting and raving about the "sad state of her esteem" and how he felt Amaury should "handle it." Which he was still doing, Amaury noted with some disgust as he resumed listening to his friend's words.

  Truly, it was most insulting the way everyone thought he needed guidance in dealing with his wife. Did they all really think him such a bumbling fool?

  "You must help her rebuild her confidence, Amaury. She is in sore need of flattery. You must--"

  "You must stop telling me how to take care of my wife and mind your own business!" Amaury finally snapped.

  Blake stiffened at that. "I was only--"

  "Butting in where you are not needed. Find your own wife to take care of."

  Blake's disgruntlement disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, amusement taking its place. "My apologies, Amaury. I did not mean to make you jealous. I knew not that you were so fond of her already."

  Amaury's eyes narrowed at once. "I am not jealous."

  "Aye, you are."

  "Nay, I am not."

  "Aye, you are."

  "I am n-- oooh!" Amaury grabbed his head and groaned as a shaft of pain shot through it when he began to roar.

  "I knew you were." Blake laughed, then turned and quickly left the room.

  Muttering, Amaury lay back in the bed and closed his eyes. Perhaps now he could get some sleep, he thought grimly. Truly it was impossible to do so with his sweet little wife lying beside him. He wondered briefly what his wedding night might have been like had Fulk actually seen to the consummating, then realized with a bit of a start that there very well might not have been a wedding had that been the case. Lady Emma most likely would have had a couple of bairns and the freedom to marry or not as she wished. Lord Bertrand would have been no threat to her.

  That thought was a bit dismaying. But for Lord Fulk's peculiarity in not bedding his wife, Amaury would not be lying here . . . in this bed . . . in this castle . . . with a sweet little wife who disturbed his sleep.

  Sighing, he turned his head to peer out the window beside the bed, only realizing then that it wasn't an open window at all as he had thought the first night. It was glass. Damn! His castle had glass windows, he realized with a smile. It was an expensive item and not all that common. He had seen glass in but one other castle to date, the king's.

  He had glass windows, he thought with pleasure, then shook his head once again. It was amazing to him that Fulk had not wished to stay here. Imagine . . . A beautiful wife, glass windows . . . What else could a man ask for?

  Recalling his stalling on the trip here and the assumptions he had made as to her looks, he grimaced, but did not feel too foolish at his assumption that she would be a hag. What else was he to think? By all accounts, they had been married some two years and Fulk had not only not bothered to bed his wife, but had kept her a veritable secret from all of London. Perhaps all of England.

  Which was probably how his wife had reasoned that she must be ugly, Amaury realized now. After all, Blake had said Rolfe had told him that there had been few visitors to her home as a child. That her time had been spent mostly with her father and cousin. There would have been no one to court her or to tell her of her beauty but the two men she knew loved her. When her husband had neglected her so, there would have been very little else for her to think but that she was unattractive.

  It was the truth, Amaury thought on a sigh. Her confidence would be sorely lacking. She was in powerful need of flattering and building up her esteem, and as her husband it was his duty to recognize and fulfill her needs. That being the case, he had a great deal of work before him, he thought with a frown. Aye, he would have to tell her of her beauty.

  Drumming his fingers impatiently on the bed, he glared around the room. It was vastly annoying that Blake had seen this need of his wife's before he had. After all, it was his chore. Even more annoying, suddenly, was the fact that she was not at his side now. She was somewhere in the castle, doing what ever it was women did to fill their time, while Blake-- the man Amaury had witnessed women coo and faint over-- was also somewhere in the keep.

  Cursing, Amaury tossed the bedclothes aside and turned to sit up on the edge of the bed. He was damned if his friend was going to tend to his wife's tender feelings. That was his job, dammit! He was her husband!

  "My Lord! Lady Emma! Lady Emma! He is trying to get up!"

  He turned to glare at the door as the maid Maude hurried away, eager to tattle on him. Muttering under his breath, Amaury shook his head and turned his attention back to struggling to his feet.

  This was his castle, blast it! He could get up if he wished. He was lord here, after all, and he would tell his wife that too, he decided grimly, gaining his feet.

  "My husband!"

  All of Amaury's bluster fled to be replaced by a guilty grimace at her dismayed voice as his wife reached the room and saw what he was about.

  Chapter 6

  WHAT do you? Are you mad?" Emma berated her husband as she rushed into the room. "You must rest to regain your strength, not waste what little you have left."
>
  Amaury scowled at her, then sighed and decided to ignore her bossiness. It was difficult to argue that he need not stay abed when he was swaying weakly on his feet. It appeared he had used up most of what little strength his anger had given him. Aside from being a bit dizzy, he also was feeling rather weary all of a sudden.

  Reaching his side, Emma grabbed quickly at his arm to steady him, then urged him to sit on the bed once more. His legs already collapsing beneath him, Amaury gave a grunt as he slipped back to sit on the bed, then sighed resignedly as his wife fussed and fretted around him, helping him to return to a lying position beneath the bedclothes and tucking him in. Some of his strength returned, however, to send him surging up in bed when she then moved to leave the room.

  "Where go you?"

  Emma turned back, her surprise at the sharp tinge to his tone obvious. "I thought to go to the kitchen to see about dinner."

  "Nay, your place is here."

  Emma's eyebrows rose at that pronouncement. "Aye, but you must rest, my lord, and I have duties to--"

  "As your husband, am I not your first duty?"

  She frowned over that. "Aye, my lord, but you needs must rest."

  Amaury grimaced over that, but did not argue the point. "You should rest also, wife."

  "Me? But I am not the one injured," she protested at once.

  "Aye, but you have two nights of no sleep to make up for."

  "But . . . I am not tired."

  "Aye, you are."

  "Nay, I--"

  "Do not argue, wife. Do I say that you are tired, then you are."

  "But--"

  "Am I not your lord?" he asked with an impatient sigh.

  "Aye, but--"

  "Then your place is at my side. To bed."

  Emma stared at him blankly for a moment, then let her shoulders drop with a sigh and moved behind the screen to change. It seemed best to humor him just then. He had suffered a head injury after all and those were known to addle the brain some. She hoped the affliction would pass with a bit of time.

  Grunting his satisfaction, Amaury sank back against the pillows and relaxed. He was terribly satisfied with himself. It was true, he seemed too weak yet to be able to leave his bed. However, no one would have the chance to compliment his wife and repair the damage done to her esteem but himself this way. Besides, his wife had shown a distressing tendency toward bossiness since his injury. Exerting his authority as he had, had been enough to remind her of her place. It was not good to let a woman get above herself, he was sure.

  Amaury remained thoroughly satisfied with the way he had maneuvered things right up until his wife walked out from behind the screen in her black gown and climbed into bed beside him. Then some of his satisfaction slipped as he watched her plump her pillow and pull the sheet up before lying on her side facing him and he realized what he had done.

  Damn, but he had put her right back in bed beside him again. He would never get any rest now. Frowning, he peered at her still form, then forced himself to look away and peer at the sunshine pouring in through the window.

  "Husband?"

  Amaury turned quickly to glance at his wife at her timid murmur. "Aye?"

  "You should rest," she reminded him gently.

  "Hmm." Shifting against the pillows, he frowned slightly and turned back to the window, wondering what the men were doing right then. No doubt they were lazing about, growing fat and sloppy. He would have to see to correcting that once he was up and about. He would also have to tend to the bandits, he thought grimly.

  "Husband?"

  "Aye." Amaury growled the word, then tried not to look so fierce when he saw his wife's uncertainty. Truly, she appeared an odd mixture of bossy and timid.

  "Can you not rest?"

  He was about to deny that, then sighed and shrugged.

  "Would you like to talk, perchance?" she asked then, and Amaury turned to her with some surprise.

  "Talk? To who, wife? There is none other here but you."

  Emma's gaze narrowed at that. "Aye, husband. 'Tis true I am all that is available. So mayhap you would care to talk to me?"

  Amaury hardly noticed the snap to her words, he was too caught up by the question. Amaury had never "talked" to any woman. His mother had died at his birth, and he had been raised for the first few years of his life by his grandfather, a surly old man to be sure. Then he had been sent off to foster. The lord he had fostered with had had a wife, of course, but had rarely seemed to address her except to give her orders. He certainly had never seemed to see a necessity to "talk" to her of anything of interest or import, so Amaury had followed suit and done little more than nod her way in passing as a show of respect.

  The only other women who had been in his life were camp followers. He had spent a great many years fighting this battle or that, trying to earn the money needed to purchase a home of his own. During those various battles, he had hardly had the time to make proper use of the ser vices of those women, let alone waste time "talking" to them. Truth to tell, it had never occurred to him to bother. What would he have said?

  "My lord?"

  Catching the impatience in his wife's voice, Amaury turned his eyes back to her, brows rising slightly at her expression. His little wife looked quite fraught with anger at the moment. Clearing his throat, he considered what he might say to her, then remembered his intention to rebuild her confidence. "You are pretty."

  Emma blinked at his words. They sounded more like an accusation than a compliment. Truly her husband was odd, she decided. That thought brought her mind around to the other oddity he had displayed for her on their wedding night, and her eyes dropped surreptitiously to his lap. Of course, she had realized by now that it wasn't truly an oddity, not after what he had done with it. If that was the consummation, then all men must surely have such an extra limb. A disquieting thought that. Had Fulk had one? And if so, had his been quite so large when grown? She doubted it, for Fulk had been small and well formed everywhere from what she had actually seen of him.

  "Wife?"

  "Aye?" Emma flushed guiltily as she raised her eyes quickly back to his.

  "I said you were pretty," he reminded her now. "Have you nothing to say?"

  "Nay, I do not believe I am."

  Amaury stiffened at that. "If I say you are pretty, then you are."

  "Aye, husband," Emma murmured dutifully.

  Amaury grunted, but continued to frown. He suspected she was simply agreeing because it was her place to do so, not because she had realized the truth of his words. "I said you were pretty," he repeated once more.

  "Aye, husband. 'Tis kind of you to say so."

  " 'Tis not kind. 'Tis the truth."

  "If you say so husband. Tell me of how you saved the king." When he merely scowled at her, she prodded, "Rolfe told me you saved the king from assassins in Ireland?"

  Amaury nodded reluctantly. "Aye."

  Emma waited for him to expound on the subject, but he simply sat there pursing his lips with displeasure.

  "Who were they?" she asked finally.

  "Irish."

  She rolled her eyes at that. "Aye, surely they were Irish, but--"

  "Wife, 'tis not fitting for a man to discuss war with a lady."

  Emma peered at him suspiciously at that announcement. Rolfe discussed war with her. So had her father before him. They saw nothing wrong with it. Surely he was jesting? Unfortunately, she had seen little evidence so far that her husband ever jested. "Why?" she asked finally.

  "Why what?"

  "Why is it not fitting for a man to discuss war with a woman?"

  Amaury scowled over that, trying to recall what he had heard on the subject of war and women. The truth was he had never heard anyone discuss the merit, or lack thereof, of discussing war with women. He had simply assumed it was unacceptable. After all, by all accounts, women were delicate creatures, swooning and weeping at the least provocation. He had even heard that they suffered occasionally from heart palpitations.

 
"You would most likely swoon and palpitate," he informed her now, then nodded to emphasize his words when she peered at him doubtfully.

  "Swoon and palpitate?"

  "Aye. 'Tis well known women are weak of disposition, wife," he informed her knowledgeably. " 'Tis why you are resting now."

  " 'Tis?"

  "Aye. Women are the weaker gender. They are weaker physically, weaker willed, and even weaker in the mind. 'Tis why they must be taken care of, first by their fathers and then by their husbands."

  Emma's eyes were mere slits as she glared at him. Never before had she heard such rot. Certainly her father and cousin had never said such things to her. They had treated her as an equal, except when it came to the issue of practice with the sword. Still, she knew what he said was a common belief, so tried to remain reasonable. "I grant you that men are generally stronger physically than women," Emma said.

  "And mentally," Amaury insisted quickly.

  "Nay."

  "Aye, and in character, wife. Women, if not guided with care, are the most treacherous of creatures."

  "Nay. Surely you cannot believe that!" She stared at him aghast.

  Amaury shrugged. "Consider Eve."

  "Consider the Virgin Mary!" Emma snapped back quickly.

  He paused over that. " 'Tis true that the Virgin Mary was an exceptional woman; however--"

  "And look at Judas or King Herod as examples of men!"

  "You cannot count them for they were evil men," he protested at once.

  "Just so, then we cannot count Eve or her flawed decisions."

  Amaury looked briefly confused, then he regained some of his arrogance. "My lady, according to Thomas Aquinas--"

  "Oh, aye. By all means let us hear what he has to say. A celibate who most likely detested women. Aye, his judgment would be untarnished."

  Amaury's frown darkened. "You--"

  "He is also dead," Emma added dryly.

  "I think 'twould be a good idea to change the subject, wife."

  "Why?"

  "You are beginning to palpitate."

  Emma opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it. She was not getting palpitations, but she was becoming very angry. She did not wish to argue with her husband, however, so she decided a change of subject might be the best of all possible options. "Who is Little George?"