The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (44 page)

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.

"Yet is this not a game that must be mastered with each new lady? To master the game is not to master the woman."

"To master the game is to master all women," Ulrich said. "This I knew even as a man newly made. How that you do not know this most simple truth, Roger?"

"I know enough to know that Juliane is not as any woman you have ever known. Would she have found a place for herself in every troubadour's song from here to Jerusalem if she were not above the mark?"

"She might, if her beauty were great enough."

"And so they sing," Roger said with a chuckle.

"If her father were powerful enough."

"The second stanza, if I remember aright."

"If her resistance to the lure of men and the sweet call of adoration were as strong as the gates of Fontrevault," Ulrich continued, grinning, enjoying the battle.

"The fourth verse. I remember it well."

"Methinks you are well enamored of this lady, Roger," Ulrich said. "Have at her, if it please you."

Roger bowed his head to Ulrich in mock submission. "Yet she is not yours to bestow, Ulrich. Never yours, nor any man's. And so her legend stands, with nary a scuffle to mar it. You are more changed than I knew," Roger said softly and somewhat sadly. And very deliberately.

"And you are as subtle as a battering ram, which is no change at all," Ulrich said, laughing. "Come, what is your wager?"

Roger grinned, and all pretense of sadness fell from him like a dropped cloak. "Win her," he said. "Be the man to win past Juliane's frost. Melt her, if you can."

"She is a virgin and a lady," Ulrich said, turning from his friend to look upon the horizon. "I will not wager on such a thing."

"She has been married and set loose. Many upon many women wear that cloak, and Juliane is of their number."

"A virgin still," Ulrich said. "I will not sweetly steal from her what can never be replaced. That is a game I will not play."

"Let her a virgin stay, if your honor will have it so," Roger said.