The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series), page 25
It was a moving sight, her beauty and her piety blending seamlessly with her womanly submission. It was a balm to the eye, and those who watched sighed in satisfaction and nodded mute approval.
Henley looked like a man trapped. He had known—aye, he had manipulated to have the two of them spend much time together, knowing where it had to lead. Bertrada was a beauty, but he was not a man to be stirred by a woman's beauty, and after breaching her on their marriage night, he had not found his way to her bed again. She had hungered for a man until her eyes had settled on Richard, for it was Richard whom he had placed under her eye. Again and again, he had set them together, speaking words of praise concerning the boy to Bertrada, teaching Richard that he was a man soaked in sinful lusts and ill equipped to quench them. He had done his work well. If all had gone as he wished, Bertrada would have conceived a child and Richard would have drowned in guilt, ready to grant Henley any service to expiate his crime. But Richard had run, Bertrada had not conceived, and he now faced the public exposure of his secret acts.
Bertrada waited, her piety and submission obvious to all. To kill her now would leave him none the richer in pride or regard. "Up, Bertrada. You are forgiven," he ordered roughly.
Instead of obeying him, she sobbed into her hands, kneeling before him. He offered his hand to help her to her feet, eager to end this display. Bertrada rose, leaning into him, her sobs shaking her. And still Richard stayed, waiting.
"Begone," Henley barked, motioning with his hand toward the gate. "There is nothing more for you here."
"Is there not?" Richard said calmly. "Only you can know, Henley, if there is any sin you must confess to me or to your wife. If your soul is without stain, then I will go."
Richard stood unmoving, waiting, his expression expectant. Henley looked a man in torment.
"It was not I who fouled my vows," Henley said in an undertone.
"Nay?" Richard responded. "To love, honor, and protect, lifting your wife as holy and blameless to the Lord of Hosts?"
"Words spoken at the marriage ceremony," Henley said. "Am I expected to remember and keep every vow I have ever sworn?"
"Yea," Richard said, "you are."
"Did you plan all this when you stripped and walked through my gates?"
"I only wanted forgiveness. For all who have sinned."
"You are more monk than man," Henley grumbled.
"It does not take a monk to see sin before his eyes, or in his heart."
"Must we all kneel in the mud today?" Henley snarled, his anger obvious.
Richard stepped close to him, the visual force of his nakedness a blow against Henley's guilt, and said in a hoarse whisper, "I know what you did."
Henley looked up abruptly, and Richard's eyes pierced through the layers of deceit with which Henley had covered himself.
"You set us together. Again and again, time upon time. A woman of beauty who hungered for a man's touch and a youth just coming into the full force of his manhood; you taught me well that my lusts could not be contained, that I was ruled by passion and sin and could never hope to quench their fire. I believed every word you spoke," Richard growled softly, his eyes smoldering. "You needed a child, an heir, Henley, and I was the vessel which was to provide one for you. And knowing how I had sinned against you, knowing the guilt which would ride me all my life, you hoped I would grant you any service to expiate my crime. But Bertrada did not conceive," Richard hissed sharply. "And I will not hide this sin any longer. Will you stand before God and declare that you do not need forgiveness?"
Henley was trapped. There was naught he could do. If he did not ask for forgiveness, would Richard then speak aloud his guilt? Such he would not risk. Richard could see all his dark thoughts in the frantic shifting of his eyes; Henley, his motives and his methods, were as clear to him as rainwater. Even now, he plotted. Bertrada could be plumped with child another way.
Henley dropped to his knees at Bertrada's feet, his movements stiff and quick.
"Do not kneel to me, my lord, 'tis not—"
"Hush, woman," he barked. "Can I do less than others have done?"
All waited, shocked that Henley had been driven to this. Yet did not eternity weigh more heavily on a man than this temporal life? Not a one of them would have chosen differently.
"Forgive me, Lady, for taking such a course. 'Twas ill done," he said.
For answer, Bertrada knelt with him, throwing her arms around his neck.
'Twas done.
Richard smiled and silently thanked God for His mercy. And then thanked Him for holding Isabel's tongue during this display. He had felt her urgency and her fear, her anger and her distrust, yet her lips had remained sealed. 'Twas nigh on a miracle. Turning, he walked with Isabel toward the open gate, and Dornei.
She understood more than what had been said in their public confession and mutual forgiveness. Richard knew that Henley had done more than turn his head away from the adultery of his wife; he had actively pursued the alliance, forcing his squire and his wife to spend much time together. Also, he had convinced Richard to owning the cardinal sin of lust; a young man of such serious and godly bent would have taken such instruction to heart. Such had Henley not confessed. And she also understood what Henley had hoped to gain. An heir, no doubt, for Bertrada had never borne one. But she would say none of it. It was left behind, with Henley and with all memory of Malton, to be forgotten. Let God deal with Henley in His own way and time. Richard had done his part.
"What has he done? I comprehend it not," Edmund said to those who waited with him near the gate.
"'Therefore, confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another, so that you may be healed.'" William quoted. "'The effective prayer of a righteous man can accomplish much... My brethren, if any among you strays from the truth, and one turns him back, let him know that he who turns a sinner from the error of his way will save his soul from death, and will cover a multitude of sins.' The Book of James, chapter five."
"You know as much holy writ as a monk," Edmund said, looking wide-eyed at William.
"Yea," he said woodenly. "I do."
He did not seem pleased with his skill, Richard noted. Richard and Isabel were at the gate, and now he would see where his confession had taken him.
William and Rowland faced him squarely, their expressions solemn. He could not read them and prayed anew that God would not desert him in this first of many steps back into the world of honorable men.
"You have heard the depth of my sin," he said, facing them.
"Because we have heard your confession," William said, his silver eyes glinting like polished steel.
"I have sinned much," Richard said, prompting them.
"As have I," Rowland said.
"As have we all," William added.
"You have walked the Way of the Cross," Richard said, his voice revealing his awe and, perhaps, a touch of envy.
"Aye, and mayhap for the same cause for which you joined the abbey brethren," William said. "Great service to expiate great sins?"
Richard smiled lightly. "It does not work."
"Nay, it does not," William answered. "But few have the heart to do what is required."
“To walk in the Way, even to far Ashkalon, is an easier journey than the one which brought you here," Rowland said, his dark eyes soft and expressive. "Few men would have the strength to do what you have done here today."
"I had to obey my Lord," Richard said, the words simple, the meaning profound.
"Aye, and that is your strength," William said. "A man of such strength is a welcome comrade. Even if you do hoard your battles," William said with a pained smile.
"A single flaw," Rowland answered with a grin. "None can say you hoard your clothes."
"Did none bring my clothes?" Richard asked, his expression comical.
"We brought ourselves only," Rowland answered, "certain you hurried to your death."
"I was dead," he said with a grin, his face alight, "dead in sin; now I am alive. And cold."
"You expected less?" William said. "I wager you will not start a new fashion being thus clothed."
"Unclothed," Rowland corrected.
They passed through Malton's gates, leaving all darkness there within her dark tower. None stopped them, and they left with as many in their party as they entered. 'Twas God's grace and nothing less.
The wind was hard outside the walls and the sky the forced gray of an early and stormy dusk. 'Twould be a cold ride home. Home. He was leaving Malton, not running, and he was going home. To Dornei.
"Edmund, fetch my—"
But Edmund was mounted and gone before he could finish, off to fetch Richard's clothes where he had left them on the road, off with the reins of Richard's mount firmly in his fist. All mounted with smiles, he behind Isabel on her palfrey. Isabel, of them all, was strangely silent. Certainly God's miracle over her tongue could now come to an end?
She sat before him without protest. Also, without joy. He wanted her to speak, to let her words tumble out, to berate him, tease him, question him. Not this silence. Not from Isabel, who hid nothing from him. He did not know what to say to her when she was so silent. And he was afraid to ask her what was in her heart. Richard smiled ruefully; he had faced Henley and Bertrada and all of Malton. He had faced his sin, seeing it for what it was and what it was not. He had shouted his transgressions to heaven itself and had felt none of the fear he felt now with his wife in his arms. A word from her and all the joy he had just won would vanish.
But he must speak. He could not lose Isabel, even to silence.
"I need your forgiveness, Isabel, if you can find the grace to grant it."
With a soft sigh, she took breath and answered him. "For what should I forgive you?"
"For Bertrada?" he said. How easily he said the name now; all the power of that name was gone.
"Better you should ask if I can forgive Bertrada, for taking what I wanted most in all the world," she said, her voice a tremor of heavy emotion.
"She took nothing which I did not freely give," Richard said softly, holding her against him to ease the pain of his words.
"Oh, aye, you can say it," Isabel said brokenly.
"I did it, Isabel; you know the truth of that."
"Yea, your body she took, the intimacy of you and the heart of you and the dream of you. Nay, I will not cry for the dream of Richard; that is gone," she said, throwing her face to the sky, blinking back the tears.
"I am here, Isabel," he whispered, his voice a soothing caress against her hair. "I am yours."
"Because of God's ordaining."
"I can find no fault with the path of God's choosing for me," he said smiling.
"Did God plan for you to tumble with Bertrada?"
"Nay!"
"Nay, you chose Bertrada!"
Yea, if she believed that, it would grieve her spirit. Would he not have ripped open his chest to hurl his heart upon the ground if he did believe that Isabel had chosen Adam?
"I did not choose Bertrada," he said.
Isabel inched forward and turned her face to scour him with a look. "I understand well the part Henley played in the game he had devised, but do not deny that you found her beautiful and that—"
"I deny nothing," Richard said sharply, "most especially my own responsibility. Henley played his part and Bertrada hers; yet no one forced me to her bed. I found my own way. I knew what I did. No fog blinded me."
Isabel was silent, each heartbeat painful in a chest crushed by sorrow. No fog had blinded him. It was not true. He was not the animal he imagined; he could not have coupled with Bertrada unless he loved her. He loved her. He had chosen her.
Richard had not chosen Isabel. God had forced her on him, a direct result of her prayer. It was the truth, she knew it for a fact. Had she not prayed for Richard and had Richard not been given to her in the next instant?
"What is it, Isabel?" he asked, his voice soft again. They rode at the back of their company, their words heard by no one.
"I believe you," she answered, her voice unsteady and thin. "I believe you. You would not have lain with Bertrada unless you had strong feelings for her, feelings stronger than lust. Feelings of love. None could have manipulated you into her arms without your heart being engaged. You love her."
"I do not love Bertrada," he said roughly, pulling her against him, his arm hard around her narrow waist.
"Perhaps not now—"
"I never loved Bertrada!"
"You must have," she said simply, her knowledge of him her surest guide.
"Isabel, you rate me too high," he growled. "Usually, I find it hard to criticize such a tendency, but now—"
"I know you, Richard," she argued. "'Twas not blind lust which drove you into her arms."
"Nay, 'twas lust for you!" he barked, jerking the reins in his anger.
Lust for her?
Lust for her?
Impossible. Richard had never lusted after her; even when he had been convinced of being a lustful beast, when all his lustful thoughts had found their fruition, he had never touched her. He had only touched Bertrada. And 'twas not uncontrollable lust which drove Richard to act; this they now both knew.
So, with this knowledge planted firmly in her heart, she answered him.
"You did not lust for me," she said dismissively.
Richard barked his answer, a cry of laughter covered with frustration.
"You beg for words and then discount their meaning! I tell you what I know. Do I not know my own thoughts? My own heart?"
"I have often wondered," she said.
"Wonder no longer. I tell you, though it shames me, though how it could after all this day has brought, I do not know. This is my day for shaming and confession, so hear, Isabel, what I have hidden from you all these years."
She waited. It would be horrible; she could hear the horror of it in his voice. It was his day for confession, public and personal; she would not stop him, though she cringed to hear what he would reveal.
"That day in the stable," he began, his voice tight with emotion. "You remember it?"
Remember it? She had lived upon it. Would he now admit to the lie that kiss had been?
"Do you?" he barked.
"Yea, I do remember it," she said.
He was hard against her back, his arm a band that trapped her against him. His very blood seemed to pulse and vibrate, so hot was his tension.
"That day, that moment," he said hoarsely, "signaled my defeat."
She slumped against him and hung her head. 'Twas just as she had known it. He had not wanted her; his kiss had been—
"Do not lose yourself in dreaming of what you think I am saying, Isabel," he commanded. "Listen to my words and hear their truth. I am baring all to you. Appreciate the gift of my debasement."
"I hear you very well," she said stiffly. "Kissing me was a moment of defeat for you."
"Aye, it was," he agreed, "for could I hold honor high when I lusted after my brother's betrothed? I, who watched you and the black gleaming flag of your hair every moment I was not honing my skills? Did I not know that you watched me? Do you know what it does to a man, to know he is desired by the most desirable of women? Did I not hear every laugh you gave to the others? Did I not burn for you every hour of my waking and in every dream of my slumber? I burned, Isabel, and I ran, to keep from burning you with the fire of my unlawful desire."
He had burned for her. 'Twas a dream impossible. But where did Bertrada fit into dreams of Isabel?
"And what of Bertrada? I can hear the question, though you do not speak it," he said. "Bertrada was no more lawful for me than you, yet she was no virgin and she was not to become my sister. Bertrada was... there... willing... and as alone in her desires as I."
"Alone? What of Henley?"
"Henley," he smiled. "Henley does not worship her body as a husband should; his tastes are not... natural."
"Oh," she said, her eyes wide and her mouth slack with shock. "Poor Bertrada."
"Aye, poor Bertrada," he echoed. "She is to be pitied, and pity, more than desire, was what drove me to her bed."
"But there was desire," she said.
Richard laughed without a trace of humor and lifted his head to the twilight sky. "Isabel, you drive a man hard. Yea, there was desire. For you."
"I do not understand how that can be so."
"Then you do not understand your own allure. When I kissed you, no gentle kiss for an inexperienced maid, I... had not intended it."
"'Twas I who kissed you. I who followed you. I who first touched you," she said. "You are the one who ended it." She had pursued him. He had shown no signs of wanting her. Not ever.
"If I had not ended it then, you would have found yourself on the stable floor with your bliaut ripped from your body."
The violence of his words shook her. She did not doubt the truth of what he said, of his believing it, but he was wrong. Richard would have never—
"Do not doubt me, Isabel," he said, his hand sliding up her torso to caress her bosom. His naked chest pulsed heat even in the chill of the day. Where was Edmund with his surcoat? Where was their party? William and Rowland were far ahead and Elsbeth was sequestered with Ulrich, her hood shielding her face. Richard pulled Isabel hard against him, his arousal a blunt blade riding the small of her back. "Do not doubt the strength of my desire for you, nor my battles against it. I fought for control daily, hourly. I told you I battled lust. I lied. I battled you."
Sweet words to heal years of rejection; how she longed to believe him. But she would not let his words turn her; there was still Bertrada. There was still the truth that he had not wanted to marry her. How much could he have wanted her, if he wanted her at all, if he had not wanted her as wife?
"I battled you and lost," he continued. "And lost again. And so it was that I came upon Bertrada, with images of you surrounding me, taunting me. Bertrada endured her own hauntings in her place at Malton, and so we met our needs in each other. I knew it was wrong; I make no excuse, but all my thoughts then were wrong. What was one more upon another? Was to want my lord's wife so much more a sin than wanting my brother's bride?"
