For Love And Honor (7 page)

“Why?” he groaned. “Oh, God, Joanna, why
couldn’t it have been me?”

“You know why. Crispin holds the bordering
barony.” Piers sat down beside him. “Here. I brought another jug of
wine. It’s the only thing that will help you tonight. Tomorrow
we’ll have to think of something else.”

“You’re a good fren’. The bes’ fren’ of all,”
Alain declared with drunken solemnity. Taking the offered jug, he
upended it, pouring wine down his throat.

“You’re going to be sick in the morning,”
Piers observed.

“I’m sick now. An’ I’ll never be cured. You
know that, ol’ Sir Piers? Never cured. Never. Love her till I
die.”

“
Never is
a long, long time,” said Piers, catching the jug just as Alain
dropped it and rolled over in the straw. He had brought Alain’s
cloak along, as well as the wine, and now he covered the sleeping
man, pausing with one hand on Alain’s shoulder. Out of
sympat
hy with his cou
sin’s pain, Piers took a few swigs from the jug himself
before he rolled up in his own cloak and lay down to
sleep.

*
* * * *

Within the blue dimness of the marriage bed,
the new-made bride and groom lay stiffly, not touching each other.
In all her short life Joanna had never been so embarrassed or so
frightened.

“You did say that Lady Rohaise told you what
I will do?” Crispin’s voice beside her startled her.

“Yes.” Joanna’s own voice was just above a
whisper. “I will not fight you, my lord. Do what you must.”

“I’d have you find it pleasant, too, Joanna.”
He moved beside her, his hand brushing across her breast. She
jerked in surprise at the contact of bare flesh with bare flesh,
and Crispin took his hand away.

“It would be better if I could see you,” he
said.

“I am glad you cannot,” she replied. “I’d be
ashamed to have you look at me again without clothing.”

“There’s no need for shame with your
husband,” he told her. “You have a lovely body.”

He put his hand on her breast again, and this
time she stayed still, letting him stroke her skin. Gently he
teased at her nipple. She caught her breath, parting her lips just
as his mouth found hers and pressed softly. It was not at all like
being kissed by Alain. There was none of the lightning-bolt fire of
Alain in Crispin. Thinking to warm his excessive gentleness and at
the same time to please him, she touched the tip of her tongue to
his lips. Immediately he pulled away, and she could sense his
displeasure.

“Where did you learn to do such a thing?” he
demanded. “Only whores do that.”

“I didn’t know,” she stammered. “I heard the
servingwomen talking. I thought you would enjoy it.”

“Joanna, you will please me best by behaving
like the innocent maiden you are now, and after this night by
always acting like a proper wife. There are certain things that
good women do not do.”

“I did not know.” It crossed her mind that
Alain thought she was a good woman and still had kissed her in that
way. Alain had said he loved her, which Crispin had not done.

“Of course you did not know,” Crispin said
tenderly, bestowing another gentle kiss on her lips. “In your
innocence you allowed yourself to be led astray by the gabbling of
foolish servingwomen. You must not do it again; it is not becoming
to the wife of a baron. I will teach you everything you need to
know in these bedroom matters.”

“
Yes, my
lord.” With firm resolution she banished eve
ry thought of
Alain and made herself
concentrate on Crispin.

She soon
found there was nothing to fear in him. He was by nature a gentle
man, perhaps better suited for a cloistered life than for the part
of a strong and warlike baron. His treatment of he
r
was scrupulously polite. He
kissed her repeatedly, always with his mouth closed. While he
kissed her, he stroked her breasts and her shoulders and arms until
she began to experience an aching sensation deep in her belly that
made her put her arms around him and press herself against him. He
held her closely, with one hand now stroking along her back and
down to her hips and outer thighs until she began to moan and twist
in his arms. Then, as if in response to her cries, his male
hardness rose in a swift rush against her thigh, startling
her.

Someone had left candles burning on a table
in the bridal chamber so they would not be in complete blackness,
and by now Joanna’s eyes had adjusted to the semidarkness behind
the bedcurtains. She could see Crispin’s shape when he rose beside
her, and she saw the outline of his stiff manhood. She whimpered,
but it was not in fear. His persistent, gentle wooing of her body
was having its desired result. He put both hands upon her breasts,
kneading her nipples, and the heavy ache deep inside her began to
focus on one particular spot.

Crispin drew his hands slowly down across her
abdomen and on to her thighs. He began to pull her legs apart. At
first she wanted to protest, but all she could do was utter a soft,
helpless cry. Remembering Rohaise’s instructions, she voluntarily
adjusted her position, allowing him access to the most private part
of her body. He knelt between her thighs, and a moment later she
could feel him pushing against her.

“I will be as gentle as I can,” he
promised.

“I understand.” She took a deep breath.
Preparing herself for pain, she placed a hand on each of his
shoulders.

It was more like a stretching sensation than
actual pain, and it was only briefly uncomfortable. Crispin slowly
pushed himself into her, pausing once when she cried out, and then
continuing until he was completely inside her. He slid his hands
around to her buttocks to pull her closer still, and he began to
move. She was already partially aroused by his prolonged
attentions, and there was in his steady, continuing motions a
friction that began to warm her still more. He was being as gentle
as he had promised, and the heavy ache in her belly had changed
into a sweet, warm hunger that gnawed at her. She threw her head
back, gasping for air.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, apparently
misinterpreting her movement.

“No, my lord.” She sounded as if she was in
pain, but it was not pain; it was something else, something just
beyond her reach. “It is pleasant,” she assured him, wishing he
would continue what he was doing indefinitely.

“Good.” He kissed her cheek. “I hoped you
would find it so.” He moved twice more, pushing harder and deeper
now, and then expelled a long breath. When he withdrew from her and
rolled to one side she clutched at his shoulder as if to keep him
where he was.

“Please don’t stop, my lord.”

“I must, for now. And call me Crispin.”
Putting an arm around her shoulders, he pulled her close, kissing
her brow.

“It was so sweet and gentle,” she said. “Not
frightening at all. Could we do it again soon?”

“We will,” he promised. “Every night until I
get you with child.”

“I hope you will not stop then,” she said. “I
think with practice I might enjoy it even more.”

He did not answer, but only chuckled and held
her a little more tightly.

And when, later that night, he knelt between
her thighs again and touched her in places he had not stroked the
first time he had taken her, she warmed to him even more. When he
buried himself in her and held her buttocks, pushing her against
him, she grasped him in the same way, so that they were firmly
fused, and the tight fitting together of their bodies stirred her
into a sudden and brief explosion that shook her for an instant,
making her cry out softly. Again he kissed her and held her
tenderly afterward.

“I think you and I will do very well
together,” he said in a satisfied voice.

“Oh, yes, my lord. I mean, Crispin,” she
responded eagerly.

During the rest of that night she did not
think of Alain at all.

It’s time to rise.” With those words, Piers
dumped a full bucket of cold water onto Alain. Alain groaned and
rolled over. He sat up for a moment, wiping moisture from his eyes,
then flopped backward into the straw, lying there like a dead
man.

“Come, Alain, it’s growing late. Our absence
will be remarked, and you will have to answer questions.”

“I want to sleep.” Turning onto his side,
Alain burrowed deeper into the straw.

“
All
right; in that case, I’ll just have to try again.” Piers took the
bucket back to the stone horse trough outside the stable door.
There he refilled it and, returning to Alain once more, doused him
a second time. By now Alain was not so deeply unconscious as he had
been at first. He sat up, yelling his outrage at Piers’s
tr
eatment of
him, just
as one of the ostlers appeared.

“‘Ere, wat’s this?” demanded the ostler.
“Don’t wet the straw, ye’ll rot it! Out o’ my stable, ye young
bandits!”

“Your stable?” Piers said in a haughty tone.
“We are Baron Radulf’s guests, and I do not like the way you speak
to your betters.”

“
Guests,
eh?” The ostler laughed, not at all concerned by Piers’s claim.
“Radulf keeps a good stable, ‘e does, and when I tell ‘im wat ye
two ‘ave done, throwin’ water all over the straw, ‘e’ll side wi’
me, ‘e
will. Now, where’s yer wimmin? Get ‘em out o’ the
straw and clear off. There’ll be no
fornicatin’ near the ‘orses.”

“There are no women here.” Alain was on his
feet by now, holding himself upright by keeping one hand on Piers’s
shoulder. “I have renounced women,” he said solemnly.

“In that case ye’ve learnt a bit o’ wisdom in
yer short life,” observed the ostler. Apparently softened by the
sight of the wet and bedraggled Alain, he added more kindly, “If
yer young lordships will be good enough to leave now, I’ll ‘ave the
stableboys clean up the wet straw ye ruined.”

“
I’m
sorry about the straw.” Thinking it a good idea to appease the man,
lest he make a complaint to Radulf about them, Piers pulled a coin
out of the purse he wore at his waist. “My friend wasn’t
feeling well last night and needed a quiet
place to rest.”

“
Drunk,
was ‘e?” said the ostler, tucking the coin into the folds of his
clothing so quickly that Piers wondered if he made a habit of
accosting folk who spent the night in the stable. There were
probably a fair number of such people. Privacy was hard to find in
a castle, and a stable, with its partitions and dark corners, was a
good place for a lusty man-at-arms to bring a serving wench or a
pretty kitchen maid. Piers had taken a few women into th
e
straw himself in the days when
he had been a squire.

“We thank you for your courtesy, sir,” said
Alain to the ostler, bowing low. Piers caught his friend just
before Alain fell on his face, pulling him upright again.

“‘
E’s
still drunk, if ye ask me,” rem
arked the ostler. Spying the
pieces of the wine jug Alain
had broken, and looking from it to the whole jug Piers had
just picked up, he asked, “‘Ow much did ‘e drink?”

“
More
than enough,” said Piers, at the same instant that Alain said, “Not
nearly enough.
”

“Aye, it’s a wench, all right,” noted the
ostler, watching Piers lead Alain out of the stable.

Alain stopped in the stableyard, blinking in
the bright sun of a midsummer day.

“Come on,” Piers urged. “We’ll visit the bath
house first. I’m sure it will be full of other men in your
condition. Then we’ll see the castle barber, and afterward, with
fresh clothes and some solid food in your belly, you’ll find you
feel a lot better.”

“I meant it,” Alain said, walking beside
Piers. “I have given up all women.”

“That’s your aching head talking. You don’t
look like a monk to me,” Piers said with his usual good sense. “In
any case, if you care enough for her to make yourself this
miserable on her account, then there is one woman whom you will not
give up.”

The hot water and steam of the bath house did
wonders for Alain’s sore head, and by the time he had been shaved
and had changed his soiled clothing he felt much better. He entered
the great hall with Piers, anticipating food for his growling
stomach and a single small cup of wine.

The first
person his eyes lit upon was Joanna, in a green gown and with her
hair caught up high into a golden net like the one Rohaise often
wore – Joanna, smiling and looking into Crispin’s eyes as if she
was deep in love with him. And Crispin looking back at her with a
possessive warmth that nearly shattered Alain’s
composure.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Did they have to rise
so early?”

“It’s past midmorning,” said Piers. “Let’s
greet them. It can’t be avoided, so let’s have it over and
done.”

“Here you are,” called Crispin, having caught
sight of them. “Where have you been hiding?”

“In the stable,” Alain replied, looking at
Crispin because he didn’t dare to glance at Joanna.

“Ha!” Crispin laughed. “With a wench, I
suppose?”

“With a jug,” said Piers. “Actually, with two
jugs. I brought the second one.”

“How are your heads?” Crispin was still
laughing at them, clearly unaware that anything was wrong.

“My head is fine,” Alain responded, adding in
a whisper, “It’s my heart that’s broken.”

Crispin did not hear him, but Joanna did.
Alain saw her startled expression, saw her blanch to waxy paleness
and then turn rosy-red.

“Will you hunt with us?” asked Crispin, still
oblivious to the tension between Alain and Joanna.

“
We will,
if our breakfasts stay down,” Piers said cheerfully. He put one
hand on Alain’s back to push him away from Crispin and Joanna and
toward the trestle table, where bread and cheese and cold meats
were laid out for those who wanted a morning meal. Detaching
himself from J
oanna’s side, Crispin followed them.