Catherine: One Love is Enough (Catherine Series Book 1) (28 page)

Odette was the last to withdraw, leaving Catherine alone to wait for her
husband’s arrival. A last sisterly kiss, a last smile, soon hidden as the door swung to behind her, and the young woman had disappeared. Catherine knew that Odette had to leave Brazey that very evening to return to her château at Saint-Jean-de-Losne, where her daughter was waiting for her. In spite of the snow and the bitter cold, not many of the guests were to remain at the château that night. Most of them preferred to return home. Only Guillaume and Marie de Champdivers were staying, on account of their age. It wasn’t much, but even so, their presence under the same roof was a slight comfort to the young bride. She was far from regretting the departure of Lannoy and Rollin, however.

Sitting up in the great bed, the tapestry hangings of which depicted hunting scenes, she listened intently to the sounds of the château preparing for sleep. Gradually the place fell silent, the last noises muffled by the thickness of the walls. Soon the only sounds to be heard in the large, gloomy room were of the fire crackling in the huge stone chimney-place and one of the pair of dogs yawning at the foot of the bed. The other dog slept, its head stretched out on its paws.

That very morning, new hangings had been put up round the bare stone walls of her rather austere-looking bedchamber. These veiled the narrow windows and shut out the desolate view of snowy plains under a black sky. Several of the brown bearskins that Garin liked had been scattered over the floor, and with this extra layer of protection from the cold, the circular tower room took on a more comfortable and luxurious appearance. Two whole tree trunks had been sawn up to build the huge fire in the chimney, and the heat it gave out was so fierce that Catherine could feel the perspiration trickling down her back. Her clenched hands were still icy cold, however. She strained her ears to catch the sound of steps in the passage.

Under Odette’s supervision, her maids had dressed her in a sort of nightdress of white silk, gathered up round the neck by a gold ribbon. Its sleeves were so wide and loose that they slipped back to the shoulder if she raised her arm even slightly. Her hair had been plaited in two thick braids that hung down over her bosom and trailed over the red damask counterpane.

Although she was watching the door closely, Catherine neither heard nor saw Garin enter the room. He stepped suddenly and noiselessly out of a dark, shadowy corner and crossed the floor, walking on the fur rugs as silently as a ghost. Catherine stifled a scream, and nervously pulled the covers up round her neck.

‘You frightened me: I didn’t see you come in …’

He said nothing, but came closer still and mounted the two steps that led up to the bed. His dark eye was fixed intently on the frightened young woman, but his tight lips were not smiling. He looked even paler than usual. Covered as he was from head to foot in a long, black-velvet robe, he struck a funereal note that seemed rather out of place. He was like an evil spirit or a ghost doomed to haunt this lonely château. With a little moan of terror, Catherine closed her eyes and waited for his next move.

Then she felt his hands touch her head. She realised that Garin was undoing her plaits. His hands moved deftly and gently. Soon her loosened hair slipped over her shoulders and down her back like a familiar, comforting coat. He seemed in no haste. Catherine finally nerved herself to open her eyes again and found him studying a long golden lock that he held in his hand and dangled so that it glistened in the firelight.

‘Messire,’ she stammered.

He signed to her to be silent. Still without looking at her, he went on contemplating the silky lock of hair. Then abruptly he said: ‘Get up.’

She did not obey at once, not understanding what he meant. So he took her gently by the hand and repeated, ‘Get up.’

‘But –’

‘Obey me! Come! Don’t you realise that you must submit yourself entirely to me from now on? Or didn’t you understand what the priest was saying?’

His voice was cool and unemotional. He was simply stating a fact. She climbed obediently out of the bed and padded across the bearskins in her bare feet, hitching up the silk nightdress in one hand so as not to trip over its trailing hem. Garin had taken her hand again. He led her toward the fire. The expression on his face was unfathomable. Catherine’s heart pounded under her ribs. What did he want from her? Why had he made her get out of bed? She dared not ask.

When Garin’s fingers went up to her throat and untied the gold ribbon she felt her cheeks flame and closed her eyes, shutting her eyelids tightly as though they could form a protective screen. Then she no longer felt his hands upon her. Instead she was aware of the white silk sliding off her shoulders and falling in a heap round her ankles. The heat of the fire struck fiercely on her bare skin.

Several minutes passed. Red spots danced before Catherine’s tight-shut eyes. The fire was beginning to scorch her thighs and stomach. Garin did not touch her. He remained silent. She was not even aware of his presence. Her consciousness of her nakedness, however, despite her closed eyes, made her suddenly try to hide her body with her hands. She was stopped by a brief command, at which she opened her eyes again:

‘No!’

Then she saw him. He was sat in a tall oak chair a few feet away, with his chin resting on his hand, looking at her. There was a curious expression, compounded of rage and despair, on his face. The look was so intense that Catherine had to turn away her head. She noticed that his shadow, blackly outlined and so magnified by the firelight that it towered up to the old vaulted stone ceiling, seemed as precisely etched as an engraving. It struck her as somehow touching and even a little comic. Then shame flooded her as she became aware of herself being inventoried, bit by bit, by this man’s appraising steady gaze. She said plaintively, ‘Please … the fire is burning me.’

‘Move away a little.’

She did so, stepping out of the white silk heap on the floor and going across to him with innocent provocativeness, thinking to stop him playing this unkind, frightening game with her. The heat of the fire seemed to have warmed her body and excited it strangely. She had known this deep, mysterious thrilling within her, this strange, half-entranced state, once before. Catherine’s healthy young body was clamouring for the kisses and caresses it deserved. But Garin de Brazey did not move a muscle as he sat in his high-backed chair. He simply stared at her …

Catherine felt suddenly furious, and sick with shame. She was on the point of turning and running to the bed, where she could pull the curtains and covers around her and hide her mortification. But he must have sensed her mood.

His fingers closed round her wrist in an iron grip, forcing her to stay beside him.

‘You belong to me! I can do what I like with you …’

His voice had thickened a little, but the hand that gripped her wrist was quite steady. He seemed oddly unmoved by the feminine beauty that stood unveiled before him. His free hand went up and touched her averted face, still crimson with shame, and then slid with a long fingering movement round one breast and along one hip and thigh. It was not a caress so much as the appreciative gesture of a connoisseur as his fingertips appraise the fine grain of a piece of marble and a statue’s consummate purity of line. He did not repeat the movement, but Catherine started as his warm fingers touched her skin. His hoarse voice was heard again:

‘A woman’s body can be the most beautiful or the ugliest thing in creation,’ said Garin. ‘It gratifies me that yours should possess such splendour.’

Then he rose to his feet and released her bruised wrist. Catherine, her eyes wide open this time, watched him in astonishment as he crossed the room and opened the door.

‘Sleep well,’ he said quietly.

He vanished into the darkness as silently as he had entered. Catherine watched his dark form merge as if by magic with the shadows of the night. She remained where she was, stood alone in the middle of the huge room, while she slowly recovered from her surprise. Though she would not admit it to herself, she felt deeply disappointed. Then, catching sight of her shadow on the wall, she remembered her nakedness and raced across the room and jumped into bed, her heart beating wildly. Once she found herself in the warmth and comfort of her silken pillows and soft coverlets she suddenly, irrationally, began to weep.

When she stopped crying some time later, the fire had burnt out and the headache that had threatened her during the wedding-feast seemed to have returned with redoubled strength. Catherine got slowly out of bed, her eyes red and swollen and her head throbbing painfully. She found her nightgown lying near the fireplace and slipped it on. Then she bathed her face in a silver bowl that stood beside a pitcher of orange-flower water on a nearby chest. The cool water made her feel better. The room was as still and silent as the grave, and a feeling of intense loneliness overcame her. Even the dogs had gone. They had followed Garin out, no doubt. She had not noticed them leave the room. Feeling slightly calmer, she got back into bed. Then she settled herself comfortably against the pillows and tried to review the night’s events dispassionately.

The events of that strange wedding night had taught her more about herself than had the past ten years. She had learnt that henceforth she would need to be wary of her body and its unpredictable reactions and demands. When she had yielded to Arnaud’s embraces, she had been able to explain that lapse as the result of her immediate, irresistible love for him. But what about this evening? She didn’t love Garin, and was not attracted to him in the least … yet she had been within a hair’s-breadth of imploring him to take her in his arms. Her body had shown itself hungry and demanding, inhabited by strange urges, the existence of which she had hitherto scarcely even suspected.

She did not even try to guess the motives for her husband’s behaviour. It really was impossible to make head or tail of it!

The following day was Christmas Eve. A frail piping music woke Catherine from her sleep. The curtains had been drawn back to reveal a gloomy winter landscape, but the fire leapt up merrily in the grate. Before it, with a greyhound lying at his feet, sat Garin, in one of the high-backed oak chairs. He was still wearing his black velvet robe, as though he had just got up. As Catherine started up in bed he smiled thinly.

‘Those are the oboes of Advent playing, my dear. Tradition has it that they play here all day until midnight. You must make haste to receive them. I will summon your women.’

Still only half awake, Catherine watched bewildered as her maids ran gaily into the room to wish her good morning. They all seemed very cheerful and tripped about the bed, one holding out a loose dressing-gown lined with fur, another her slippers, and a third a mirror. But their mischievous glances kept straying across to where Garin sat, composed and erect in his chair. He surveyed all this cheerful bustle with an indulgent air, playing to perfection the role of the newly-married husband enjoying watching his beloved wife at her morning toilet. Catherine did not know whether to laugh at this humbug or lose her temper with him.

Sara alone maintained her imperturbable calm. She came in last, bringing with her the dress that Catherine was to wear that day, the one following her wedding. It was a gown of honey-coloured wool embroidered with silken wheatsheafs in the same colour, each one outlined with a delicate gold thread. Its wide sleeves, neckline and hem were bordered with a band of sable in a rich brown colour. The underdress was of plain honey-coloured satin. The headdress, which completely concealed Catherine’s hair, consisted of a double band of sable encircling a tall cone of embroidered cloth from which a matching veil fluttered. A broad belt of chased gold kept the folds of her dress in place just below the bosom. And a necklace of topazes, interlaced with gold wheatsheafs, completed the outfit, which Sara helped her mistress put on with the ceremonious gestures of a priest before the altar of some pagan goddess.

The gypsy woman’s face was glum, however, and she did not utter a word while Catherine was dressing. Garin had retired to see to his own toilet, and the two women could have spoken freely to each other had it not been for the mischievous swarm of young maids darting about the room. When Catherine was ready, Sara dismissed the others with a wave of the hand, then turned toward the young woman with an anxious expression.

‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Are you happy?’

The abruptness of the question took Catherine by surprise. Sara seemed in a savage mood. Her black eyes searched the face of the new Dame de Brazey as though she hoped to read something in it. Catherine frowned.

‘Why shouldn’t I be? Or rather, why should I be? I didn’t get married to be happy? Or didn’t you know?’

‘I know. I merely want you to tell me what happened during your wedding night. The first experience of physical love is so important, especially for a woman …’

‘It all went well,’ said Catherine cryptically. She had determined not to admit to a living soul, not even to Sara, what a humiliating experience she had undergone the previous night. Her pride rebelled at confessing, even to her old confidante, that her husband, after contemplating her in all her naked splendour, had returned to spend the night in his own room without affording her so much as a kiss. Sara however was not so easily fobbed off.

‘All that well? You don’t look very tired for a woman on the morning after her wedding night. You haven’t even got shadows under your eyes.’