The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series), page 31
"Aye, he can," Gautier said, grinning. "That her womb bear him many sons to carry his name and his blood forward. That is the best reward for a man in this life."
"In this life, perhaps," Elsbeth said with the smallest whisper of rebellion.
"My reward rests in God's hands," Hugh said, looking down at her, his expression solemn. "Let Him give me what He will. Or will not. I am content within His grasp."
It was a perfect answer. She could not have dared even to dream for more. She had no words to speak against the match or the man.
A most troublesome beginning to a marriage she did not want.
* * *
It was a marriage he wanted with all his heart, though he doubted Gautier knew it. Which was all to the good. No man would be invited into the dark and shadowed corners of his heart, nor any woman, even if she be a wife.
Hugh sat next to his future father-in-law in the vast, dark, drafty hall Gautier seemed so proud of. What was more, he was drinking bad wine, though Gautier did not seem to mark it. A most strange place, this England. He had heard the stories of it all his life, but he had not quite been prepared for the reality of the place.
It was damp. All over, it was damp. Within and without. A cold damp that settled in the very pit of his stomach and that no fire could burn away. And the sun was a weak thing here, shrouded in cloud and fog and mist and defeated by them all. He longed for the strong white light of Jerusalem and found it only in his dreams.
Ah, well, he had his duty to perform in England and then he was off, home again, to the land of God Himself. He would find solace in his dreams until then.
Elsbeth had gone to pray before the marriage ceremony and to bathe, rather like a man performing the vigil that marked the beginning of his knighthood. Well, and he could see the reason in it. Her life was about to change, and there would be no going back. Aye, let her pray through her fears; he would not condemn her.
According to her father, and even Lord Richard, she was a woman much given to prayer. He could see no fault in it. A woman's life was a secluded one. If she marked the hours by attending the Mass, sending her Latin heavenward, he would only praise her.
Aye, 'twould be a fair marriage, each of them content in getting what they wanted. And was that not the root of contentment? That she was comely was a boon unasked for; perhaps all the sweeter for that. She had the dark took of a woman of the Levant, dark of hair and eye, though her skin was the color of rich cream. Her features were bold and full and her gaze direct, which was not a feature of a woman reared in the land of Christ. He did not fault her for it. These Northern women did not have the same ways as the women of his own life.
He was very far from home, but it did not serve to dwell upon it. He was halfway to winning his goal; he dare not falter now by falling into dreaming of home.
Turning to his host, he said, "How did your daughter come by her name? It is new to me," he asked Gautier, pulling himself out of his longings.
"She comes from a royal Saxon house," Gautier answered. "Her mother, Ardeth, was descended from a Saxon king. I married her to firm my bond to this isle and to gain good land. A wise marriage. Too bad she did not live to see Elsbeth wed."
"When did she die?"
"Two years past. She died in childbed, with Elsbeth at her side," Gautier said, licking chicken fat from his fingertips. "I married again and she is plumped, so all is well. Five sons I have, a rich legacy for any man."
"Aye, that is true. You are rich in sons. And in daughters. Elsbeth is lovely."
"It is good you think so," Gautier said. "A man finds pleasure in a pleasing face... and between soft thighs."
Hugh smiled and drank again of his wine, holding his tongue, keeping the peace.
"You do not wish to break free of the match, even knowing that she would prefer the convent?" Gautier asked.
Hugh smiled and set down his wine. The tablecloth was frayed and thin, much like the wine. "I do not fault her for having dreams as to how she would spend her life, especially a life devoted to prayer. She will make me a fine wife. I will not break free."
"Nor will she," Gautier said.
Hugh only nodded.
"You can have her today. I give her to you. The contract is written, the priest waits only upon my word," Gautier said.
He was a most anxious father, most anxious and eager to give his daughter into marriage. Still, Elsbeth was of an age to marry and Hugh eager to take her to wife. There was no cause to delay.
"I am ready. When she comes, I will take her. Let me only say my own prayers to my divine creator before I join myself to your daughter. I would come to her clean of all sin," Hugh said.
"As you say," Gautier said. "Go to your prayers. I will not hinder you nor any man in his converse with God. Would that more men were of your temper, Hugh. The world we live in would have a different shading than it does now."
"Aye, it may be so," Hugh said, rising from his seat. There was a smudge of dirt on his white tunic from the dusty underside of the table. He turned his eyes from it and smiled his departure at Gautier.
Gautier smiled to watch him go and stroked the dog pressed against his side with negligent affection.
* * *
The chapel of Gautier's holding was against the east wall, a squat and dark building of stone and mortar scoured by wind and mossy with time. It looked like a stable. Hugh sighed and let his eyes find instead the beauty of the place. There was some small patch of brilliance, if one looked long and hard. He had. He had been in Warkham for a sennight, awaiting the arrival of his betrothed. The chapel did boast a splendid floor of cut stone and shimmering quartz laid in a design that awkwardly mimicked the brightly colored mosaics of the Levant. Still, it had a certain severe beauty, and he let the sight wash through him.
The chamber was quiet and still, the birds of winter cooing softly in the rafters, the air pleasantly scented by beeswax candles. It was a place to find God, to hear His voice amid the clamor of living. It was where he found Elsbeth.
She knelt in the nave, her dark hair a shining wave that flowed over her back. Her spine was straight and her head bent to her prayers. The sound of her voice was a soft murmur in the air, as pleasant and soothing as birdsong. He approached her softly, his boots silently marking his passage over the stone floor.
She did not look up. She did not stop her prayers. He had not expected such from her. A woman given to prayer would not mark the approach of a man, even though that man be her betrothed.
He watched her as he knelt at her side. There was a strength to her, a clarity of purpose that radiated from her eyes, a resolve that was unusual in a woman. She was small. And she was young. Yet those traits did not diminish her. A woman, this woman, would need her strength for what he planned to do in her life. Nay, he found no fault with Elsbeth. God and Baldwin had chosen well for him.
He bent his head to his own prayers, his words blending with hers to form a strange sort of spiritual song. If she heard it, she gave no sign. He did not think Elsbeth was given to showing signs.
In time, when the candles had burned down, their wax leaving smooth puddles on the floor, their prayers were silenced. Even Elsbeth, it seemed, could not pray all day. At least not while her betrothed waited at her side in her father's chapel.
"I have not yet bathed," she said, staring up at the rood. Christ upon His cross did not look down at them but cast His eyes upward, toward the Father and His reward. A fine lesson for them all in the way a man's eyes should be fixed upon the prize.
"I will wait," Hugh said, studying her profile. Her lips were full and her brow strong, yet her eyes were soft and deep.
The silence stretched out between them, a silence marked by nothing more significant than the sound of the wind in the rafters and the motion of the birds. Still, it was peaceful. Had he been born a woman, he might have found much solace in prayer and continual contemplation. But he was not a woman.
"I was not..." she began and then faltered.
He waited and did not press for more. Let her speak when she had found her words. Such gentle chivalry would go far with her, according to all Gautier had said.
"I did not pray to delay our marriage," she said, her eyes on the floor under her knees.
"I did not think you had. I would never think so ill of you, Elsbeth. I believe you to be a woman who does not give her words to the air, to be snatched off when the wind blows a different course," he said.
She looked up at him then, a fleeting look that showed first her surprise and then her pleasure at his words. Had she heard so few pleasing words in her life that these few would turn her head?
"Do you?" she asked and then turned away from him again, her eyes once more on the rood. "Do you know me so well and so quickly, then? Or do you only hope?"
"Perhaps it is only hope," he said, standing, giving her his arm to assist her.
She laid her hand upon his arm slowly, cautiously. It was their first touch, and well they knew it. Yet it was only a hand upon an arm. Only a hand, yet she hesitated. He could not fathom it. She had seemed more bold than to hesitate at this.
"And perhaps," he continued, taking her hand in his and laying it upon his arm, "perhaps it is that I trust. I trust in God, Elsbeth, as must you. I trust that He has gifted me with a bride who will suit. I trust that our lives will mesh, becoming one, as the Lord God intended. As Adam was given Eve, so I am given you."
Her eyes widened and she snatched back her hand. "Eve sinned grievously. Do not compare me to her, I beseech you. She did not do her husband any good turn that I can see. I would be better."
"It may be so," he said, taking back her hand and holding it in his, "and yet, she was fashioned for him and from him. And she peopled the earth, as God commanded. I find no fault with that."
"You are a strange sort of knight," she said, her dark eyes smoky with wonder.
"I am a knight of the Levant, Elsbeth. That is all I am," he said, meaning every word.
Excerpt from
The Fall
Book Five
Medieval Knight Series
by
Claudia Dain
© 2004, 2011 by Claudia Welch
The Tale
And so it was that she was married in good time.
She had completed her fourteenth year and was as soft and warm and golden as the day itself, her hair of burnished and shimmering gold and her eyes as blue as summer. She took her place by her husband's right hand and waited upon his pleasure.
The priest in that darkened chamber of stone murmured his prayers, then turned his eyes from heaven to look upon the bride. He urged her to do rightly by her father and her lord, bringing honor to both their houses by proving the fertility of her loins.
As she was called upon to do, she submitted her will and her life in perfect piety. Her head was bowed and her eyes clear of guile as she promised to do all that a woman should do in this earthly life.
Her father, that strong knight of fame, grunted his own admonition, which she received in all humility and good heart. The priest blessed her and blessed her new-made husband, he whose name for fighting and for wenching had settled upon him like a warm cloak of comfort. For is a man not made for such doings and such a name? And was he not a man to make a father proud and cause a daughter's heart to tremble in delighted fear at a contract so well made?
Aye, it was so and more. 'Twas a match to make all glad.
The ceremony concluded, both father and priest departed, leaving husband and bride and one more within the cold stone walls of an early spring. One more to watch and witness and wait. One more, a woman of her father's house, to see that what was done was as it must be done. To tell the tale of what befell in that conjugal chamber. To tell what she did see befall between a husband and his virgin bride.
'Twas the second night of their bond, and, by the bride's own telling, there was much to see.
Or rather, by her word, there was much not to be seen.
With a look to the lady of her father's house, the bride bared her breasts to the man who had claimed her. White and round they were and gleamed like alabaster in the soft light of fire as it teased shadow and stone. She cupped her breasts in her hands, holding them for her husband's approval and finding it in his eyes.
The lady of her father's house urged her to keep on, to tempt the man who stood before her, to bring him to fullness, to bring him to need. And so the bride walked across the boards to her husband, her breasts soft and warm, and when she reached him, she stretched out her hand and took him within her grasp.
All this was watched and approved by the lady of her father's name.
And yet he failed to rise.
So yet the lady chided the bride and told her to warm her chill hands by the fire's heal, bringing warmth to them both with a loving grasp gone hot. And so she did, this submissive maid, performing all as she was instructed, her very heart determined to be all that a wife should be to a man.
She knelt by the fire, her breasts a beacon of desire for any man, and held out her hands to the flames. Her hair tumbled down her back and across her shoulders, a shimmering fall of shining gold and amber. A rare maid and beautiful. God had not cheated her of that which men hold dear in their women. Yet her husband's desire was slow to rise, which surely is against God's design and plan.
Her hands warmed, she turned and knelt with the fire at her back, facing her husband, her blue eyes soft and yearning, her manner docile and submissive; in all ways she was a wife to please a man.
At the lady's urging, the man came forth, his member lit by fire as he drew near his wife. With gentle touch, she stroked him, murmuring words of love and duty, willing in this and in all ways to be his wife. With a smile, she stroked him, pressed him, teased him. With a furrowed brow, he watched her, listening to her words, listening to her promises.
Yet still, he did not rise.
And so it was that the lady saw all was as the bride had told it. He could not rise. He could not consummate. The marriage was null. The bride was a maiden still and would a maiden remain.
And so it was that Juliane of Stanora lost the husband arranged for her and became known as Juliane le Gel, for though she was rich in beauty, it was the beauty of winter frost, and men lost their heated passions when she cast her eye upon them.
And so it was that from that day all saw that her eyes were the blue of winter ice, her hair the gold of frost-burned autumn grass, her skin as smoothly cold as white alabaster.
Still, men came to her, drawn to her beauty and her wealth, eager to test themselves against her ice, and yet not a one of them could rise high and hard when she smiled upon them.
And so it was that the legend of Juliane le Gel was born.
Chapter 1
England, 1165
"You cannot say that you have not heard of her."
Ulrich shrugged and smiled. "I cannot? Then I will not."
"But what do you think of her?" Roger asked.
"I think she is a lady much spoke of," Ulrich said with a grin. "That is what I think."
"You have gone hard in your age, Ulrich. There was once more of jest and laughter in you. And more of heart."
Ulrich ignored the jibe, ignored the truth of it, ignored the cause of that truth. That was for no ears beyond those of his confessor. He had confessed, been forgiven, set a penance; he was free of it now. If only memory would release him.
But those thoughts were not for now. Now was for joy and laughter. It was a brilliant summer's day, his oldest friend was riding at his side, and joy was for the taking. All he had to do was reach out his hand for it.
"Now answer me, Roger, for I have a question of my own."
"Ask it, then," Roger said easily.
"Has Juliane le Gel not heard of me? Does she tremble, do you think, knowing I am come into her domain? Does she fear the loss of her icy power and her frosty name?" Ulrich said, laughing by the end of his inquiry, his mount tossing his bead in what seemed shared humor.
Roger rode at Ulrich's side into the rising heat of a midsummer day. The fields about them were heavy with seed, and high above them flew a hawk in swooping circles against a white-blue sky. It was not often that they found themselves together, and perhaps their friendship was the sweeter for the little time they had to share. A bond of men it was, of men who fought and were paid for fighting in a world of never-ending fights. The world had need of such men, and so they found their way in it, sometimes together, more often apart. Yet friends in all, distance and silence no barrier to their bond.
"You want her to fear you, Ulrich?" Roger said, looking askance at his sometime companion. "Never have I heard it said that fear was what you desired in a woman. Verily, your heart has gone hard as mortar to even jest in such a fashion and against such a lady as Juliane of Stanora."
"You judge me hard, brother," Ulrich said. "Do I not have a legend of my own to protect? Shall I toss years of courtly battles into the mist for this lady of frost? Perhaps she should and does fear me, for you know better than any that I am not afeared of her, no matter the tale told of her and her strange powers over a man's manhood."
"Perhaps you would do well to fear her," Roger said, baiting his friend in arms. "She is formidable by every tale told of her. There is none who can best her in this game of seduction. And many upon many have tried."
Ulrich grinned, seeing clearly where this would lead. "You claim to know me, and yet you charge me with fear of a comely damsel? You know me little, it seems."
"I know you well enough," Roger said, looking back at the horizon. "I know you care less now for the trials of courtly love than you did even three summers past."
"Once a game is mastered, the joys diminish," Ulrich said easily, watching the hawk as it was beset by two sparrows. The hawk seemed unconcerned by the small and noisy warriors diving above her.
