The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (42 page)

Chapter 1

England, 1158

Elsbeth faced her father as she had practiced—composed, resolved, serene. She was not the girl he had sent from him those many years ago. Surely he would see that. All could see it. He could not be so different from all others, though he was her father and he had always seemed most different to her.

She did not think that he much valued her. Still, he was her father, and God did not make mistakes about such things. Perhaps he, too, had changed with the passage of years. With God, all things, even the nature of her father, were possible.

They were in the hall, he upon his chair, she standing. Just as it had been the day she left Warkham for Dornei. But not the same, for she was not the same. She would show him she was not the same.

All rested upon that.

The clerk continued reading aloud the letter from Richard intended for her father; the letter which would declare just how much she had changed.

" 'And so, it is my prayerful belief that Elsbeth, her mind ever turned to heavenly things, is well suited to the convent life. Many upon many are the women God has created to be wives and mothers, but only once in a great while does God fashion a woman whose sole desire is for prayer and divine communion.

" 'The decision, as is right, is yours, Lord Gautier. I am confident that, with God to guide you, you will choose the life most precisely fitted for your daughter, Elsbeth.

" 'In God,

"'Richard of Warefeld'"

Her father, Lord Gautier, only looked upon her and smiled. She did not return his smile; she was striving for serenity.

"So," he said when the clerk had rolled up the missive, "Lord Richard thinks you well suited to nun's garb. You have no liking for damask, Daughter?"

"I have no disliking for it," she said. "It is only that I would give my life to God, for His purposes and His will."

"So Richard says," he said. "Did you ask him to write on your behalf?"

"Nay, I did not."

All who knew her knew the direction of her thoughts and her desires. They were not of this world, but of the next. Richard was only stating the obvious, if her father would allow himself to see it.

"It was his own idea, then, to instruct me on how to run my house and my affairs? A most direct man, he must be," Gautier said, hiding his smile behind his hand.

"It is only that he cares for me," she said, defending Richard from her father's censure.

"Ah, and I do not?"

"I did not say that, nor did Lord Richard," she said.

"Yet, he has known me for three years now. He understands my hunger for the cloister. He supports it."

Aye, she hungered for the cloister, for prayer and for solitude, showing all the world that she did not hunger for a husband. She was not fit to be a wife. She had no desire for it and no inclination. Let her father only see that and the vow to her mother would be met.

"And why should he not? He is not going to lose an alliance because his child turns from the marriage contract."

"There is a contract?"

"Aye, written and approved," he said, smiling down at her.

So, the contract was set, the man chosen. That answered all. He was not going to turn. He was resolute, even in the face of her perfected serenity. He was as stubborn as she remembered him.

"Nay, Elsbeth," he said, smiling gently. "I can see, if you cannot, that God has called you to walk a different path. Has he not given you a healthy body and an equally healthy dowry? Such signs cannot be overlooked. When you have given your husband a few heirs to secure his place in the world, you can seek the life of the cloister, if your husband will allow. That will be between the two of you. But I do hope you will remember to pray for my soul when all your hours are devoted to prayer and matters eternal."

"I could pray all the sooner if I went now," she said. There was a desperate sound to her offer and in the timbre of her voice; she could hear it yet not stop it. He was casting away all her hopes with a few smiling words.

Gautier laughed and slapped the carved arm of his chair in delight. "I had forgotten how amusing you can be, Elsbeth," he said and then all his smiles were done. "I have life in me yet. Your prayers on my behalf can wait."

"Yet can any know the hour of our death? The Lord calls us home when He wishes, His purposes His own. No prayer can wait with such urgency riding upon our hearts."

"His purposes
are
His own, Daughter, and they may stay His own. My purpose for you is clear, and as I am your earthly lord, you will do well to remember where your loyalty and your obedience lie."

"I know my duty," she said, meeting his eyes. He was still a handsome man, strong and dark. How that he had not aged or changed when she was so transformed?

"I know you do," he said. "You were ever and always obedient, though you struggled with it, did you not? If you are bound for the cloister at your life's twilight, obedience will be called for in good measure. Now is a good time to begin your life of quiet obedience. You will obey me in this, Elsbeth."

He had won. She could find no way out if he would not allow her to enter the cloister. She must marry. She was of an age. She had a sizable dowry. She was ready for the man who had been chosen for her.

Or at least, her father thought her ready. That was all that mattered in any regard. What she thought, what she wanted, was not part of any agreement she would be called upon to make. Her vow to her mother to remain unmarried and celibate was shattered in that moment at her father's word and whim. What chance had she to make good on that vow with her father standing between her and any decision she might make?

The Lord God had not made woman's load a light one. If only Eve had not taken the forbidden fruit. All would have been well if not for her.

But now the door was opened upon Sunnandune, and she could not find the heart to regret it. Sunnandune was hers upon the moment of her marriage or upon Epiphany of her sixteenth year. That momentous Epiphany, the one which she had waited for all her life, was nigh. Yet marriage and the freedom to fly to Sunnandune were closer yet.

Her mother had arranged it so, upon the counsel of her father in their early, joyous days together. Her mother had come to regret her choice, for it had been Elsbeth who had been made to live with it, yet all that was past now. Now, she was on the cusp of marriage, and with marriage came freedom of a sort. Now, she could have Sunnandune, taking it and herself away from her father's control. There was a sweet victory in that, and she savored it as fully as she could before her father's very eyes.

If only she did not have to manage a husband she did not want as part of the bargain. That was a puzzle she had to find a way to manage. She would not be married. Be it better said, she would marry if the convent was closed to her, but she would not stay married. And she would remain celibate, untouched and unviolated.

'Twas a maze and yet she knew she would find a way out, finding freedom from all men in her victory. Was God not her champion? How, then, could she fail?

Lifting her chin and concentrating on maintaining her serenity, she asked, "When is he come?"

"He is come now, Daughter, and is here. You might put on a pleasing face for him, now that he has heard you plead for release from this match. He should have a cheerful bride facing him, for he is come far to find you. Turn and behold the man I have found for you."

He was here? He had stood in the hall and heard her beg her father to allow her to enter the cloister rather than be married to him? This was not a pleasing start to any marriage. And it was just like her father to have him in the room when she first came before him after years of separation. He had likely hoped for just such a display from her. Such small acts of struggling rebellion amused him well.

She turned and looked about her. The hall was not empty. Many of the faces she knew from her childhood, yet some of the knights were new to her. Death and disease had taken some off in the ten years she had been away from Warkham, and new blood, new faces had risen to take their place. Yet who would her father have chosen?

Not the short, dark one with hair growing out of his ears. Her father would not have done that to her, no matter his humor. Though Gautier did enjoy his jests. He would be capable of it, just to charm a laugh every time he thought of them together. She must have been half the man's age, yet there was nothing unusual in that.

She looked at her father, a sidelong glance that had more open fear in it than was wise. He laughed loudly when he saw where her gaze had landed. He shook his head and gestured outward, encouraging her to look again.

There were too many men in the hall. She felt like a wife looking over the latest catch of fish, sniffing and pinching to find the freshest for her family. 'Twas shameful. 'Twas just like her father to force her to such an act.

One man stepped forward out of the shadows that hung like curtains over the corners of the hall. He was tall, golden like sea sand, and young. He stepped forward and kept coming, his eyes light in the dim shadows of the hall, his skin glowing with health and sunlight, his stride long and full of quiet purpose.

He was beautiful, in the way of a man. Strong, hard with purpose, sure of his place in the world. Certain of his worth. Safe in his beauty.

Her father did not have such grace in him as to give her a man of such beauty.

"You have spoiled my play, Hugh," her father said. "I rarely have such amusements, but if you will claim your betrothed, then I will not gainsay you."

His betrothed? Elsbeth turned to her father in amazement, her eyes unblinking. This was the man she was to be given to? This man with the face of a saint?

"Meet your betrothed, Elsbeth," Gautier said into the silence that had laid hold of her heart. "Meet Hugh of Jerusalem."

Hugh of Jerusalem. Who had not heard the tales of him? This man before her eyes was squire Ulrich's most favored topic, if William le Brouillard and Rowland the Dark were discounted. He was ever close to the side of the very King of Jerusalem, Baldwin III. A man, a Christian knight, born in the city of God. Could a man be any but holy with such a birthplace and such a calling? It was a match to make a maid's heart sing for joy, if the maid knew the tune to call a husband to her side.

She did not. She had no voice to sing for any husband; there was no such melody in her, and she had no will to learn. She knew only how to pray and in her praying, to plead for release from the married state and from the grip of her father.

And Hugh, not God, had heard her. He had heard her plead for an escape from this very marriage.

Nay, not plead, only tender a reason most reasonable as to why she should be free of betrothal. And that spoken before she knew the name of her betrothed. Or his look.

She faced him, this man who would be hers, and met his gaze. He studied her as she studied him, and she saw no condemnation in his eyes. She was no beauty, that was certain. She could not hope to match him in that. His look was solemn, not amused and yet not angry. She thanked him for that in her heart, that he should not take offense or unkind pleasure in the role her father had thrust her into. She was no prophet who could look about a hall and discern her husband at a glance. Nay, not even by the tumbled beating of her heart.

Her heart tumbled now. He was so very beautiful.

His hair was blond, golden from the sun for the roots were darker, almost brown. His eyes were the green of pine boughs in the sunlight, glistening and bright. He was tall, as she had known he must be from the tales of him; his tunic was the white linen of the Levant, with the emblem of the holy cross sewn near the region of his heart.

He was beauty and righteous holiness—twin temptations to which she must not submit, the very temptations to call most loudly to her heart. Her father had known it would be so. He knew her. He knew what would appeal to her, his daughter of no beauty and striving holiness. This man was all she could ever want. Her father must have known that well. This husband, this betrothed, would require a new kind of strength, a new type of serenity to keep him in his place. To keep herself intact.

For a moment, looking at him as the torchlight picked out the shining strands of his golden hair and the clean lines of his features, she wondered if she could do it. And then the moment passed and she knew she could. He was but a man, after all. Ardeth had taught her all there was to know of men and their ways.

She could not fail and would not. She faced Hugh of Jerusalem with her resolve in firm possession of her heart. She would not fill to a lovely face and form. She would not. She had more strength in her than that, and more faith.

"My daughter Elsbeth," Gautier said, introducing them finally. "She will not disappoint you, I think," he said to Hugh.

"Nay, I cannot think that she would," Hugh said. His voice was low and soft, like the wind in the trees after a rain. "Greetings, lady," he said.

"My lord," she said, lowering her eyes to the floor in a calculated display of feminine modesty. Even his boots were beautiful.