The Shattered Rose (47 page)

"Tomorrow?"

"Don't say you're going to change your mind now!"

Aline leaped to her feet, "No! Oh, no. But what should I wear?" She ran out to find Jehanne.

* * * * *

She wore her best red tunic and a girdle set with a ruby. Raoul had given it to her that morning, along with a chance to escape.

"It's not so long since we met, love, and not so long since you had doubts. I will wait if you want."

She looked down at the lovely gift. "I don't want. I know my mind. If you have doubts . . ."

He raised her chin. "None at all." And she saw in his eyes the same devotion and hot need that burned in her.

"Then we'll have no more nonsense, please."

They walked to nearby St Stephen's Church to take their vows at the door, accompanied by as many friends and connections as possible, future witnesses to their words. They were considerably startled, however, when a trumpet blast cleared the way for the king, crown on head, surrounded by nobles and guards.

With a mighty crowd now gathered around them, Henry declared, "I heard rumor of this event and thought I'd best witness it myself. We don't want more uncertain marriages in the family, do we, Sir William?"

Hugo and Mary looked as if they would faint with excitement, and the crowd was like a swarm of buzzing bees, but Aline could think only that the king's presence might slow things down.

The ceremony went off smoothly, however, and soon they were returning to Corser Street in a much more magnificent procession.

"Is the king coming back?" she whispered to Raoul.

"Looks like it." He gave her a rueful smile. "Many hours before we can be alone, love. Remember, self-denial is good for the soul."

"My soul's so healthy, it glows!"

"Ah, is that the light in your eyes?"

And she laughed up into his shining eyes, deciding it didn't matter if the king was here. She was married to Raoul. She could wait.

Showing sensitivity, Henry didn't stay at Hugo's house longer than it took to toast the couple, speak to the most important people, and place a large order for wine. Then he rode away, leaving family and friends to relax and celebrate. Hugo, however, was still in a daze and planning to rename the gate into his yard King's Gate.

They still couldn't, with decency, rush off to be alone, though. Aline tried to talk coherently as she sipped wine and nibbled cakes, but all she really wanted to do was eat her husband. He, however, didn't seem impatient at all. He even found an instrument and entertained. He did sing the song about almond blossoms, though, smiling into her eyes.

Most of the women were dabbing their eyes when he'd finished.

When the vesper bells sounded evening, Aline could at last hurry to the corner room that would be theirs alone tonight. Laughing women followed to help her prepare. Their jokes were as suggestive as the men's, and Aline was pink with blushes when she was ready, gowned only in her hair.

Raoul came in then, clad only in a cloak, which he discarded.

Certainly his short hair provided no cover, but then, who'd want to obscure his magnificent physique?

He smiled at her, unselfconscious even though he was already coming erect and both men and women were making scandalous jokes and appreciative comments all around them. For the second time in her life, she stared at his private parts, knowing she was turning a deeper and deeper red, but not caring a jot.

"Go away," he said to their companions, drawing her into the protection of his arms.

She was dimly aware of laughter and a closing door, then only of silence.

Silence, and Raoul, and her own growing lust.

"Nervous?" he asked.

She looked up at his darkened eyes. "Not at all. I warned you I was unnaturally stimulated by men's naked bodies."

He laughed. "I don't see anything unnatural about it,

love. But it's perhaps as well that you're about to surrender to a suzerain able to satisfy your needs."

"I'm holding you to that promise." Her hands were already wandering over him hungrily.

"And I'm suddenly terrified. . . ." And perhaps it was true. She noted with delight that his hands trembled as they slid around her neck to lift her hair high, then let it drift down again around her. "You do remind me of a juicy grape."

"Plump?"

"I adore plump. And sweet. And juicy. Touch me more, love. I hunger for your touch."

She pressed closer, hot skin to hot skin, soft curves to hard muscle, exploring his chest, his flanks, his back, with her greedy hands and lips.

As his hands and lips wandered her in turn, smoothing, squeezing, exploring, and raising her desire to even higher heat.

His erection pressed hard against her, and he was surely desperate, so she moved back a little to touch it. "Isn't it time for the conquering warrior to enter the captured citadel?"

Despite the need she could sense in him, he gently moved her hand. "Impatient to surrender, are you? Tush-tush. There is a proper procedure for these things, you know." He swung her into his arms. "For example, I need to be cautious. How can I be sure you have truly surrendered? That you don't have an ambush planned?"

"Ambush? I'm completely weaponless!"

He laughed at that, swinging her around. "Your armory is astonishing, love. Your hair, your eyes, your cheeks, your lips, your breasts . . . Ah," he said, looking lovingly at her breasts, "indeed, those could bring a strong man to his knees." And he lowered his head to suck at each nipple in turn, making her clutch at him.

"It seems to me," she gasped, "that they are my weakest point. They surrender instantly!"

"Point. Yes." And with a wicked grin he applied himself once more, drawing each nipple up high, and driving Aline down into a swirling, fevered pit.

Then he laid her on the bed. When she opened dazed eyes, he was beside her. "But not your weakest point," he said, and slid his hand between her thighs.

"Oh."

"Oh, indeed. I did think you'd have remembered this, love."

She remembered, indeed she did, and so did her body. It began to respond almost immediately, and she spread her thighs without any urging. "Come in to me. Now. I want you in me."

"Soon, love, soon. In good time and proper order. I must make sure first that your defenses are completely disarmed. ..." He kissed her lips, her neck, her shoulders, sucked on her earlobes, and on both breasts, until she could hardly tell where the pleasure disarming her body came from.

In the midst of impending chaos, Aline had a flash of clarity—that someday very soon she would learn more of these matters and drive him to disintegration just as he so easily did to her. Indeed, she
was
planning an ambush, but she didn't think he'd mind too much.

For the moment it was sweet to surrender without fear to the undoubted touch of a master. His hand gentled as the moment came, drawing it out for her, then his lips sealed hers to catch her cries. Still joined at the mouth, he moved over her.

"Now," he said against her lips, "now you are ready, little castle."

He began to enter her.

The first sensation was exquisite relief
to
her yearning flesh, but then came a pain and she couldn't help but stiffen against it.

"Dig your nails in, love. Make me feel it too."

Then he sealed her lips again and broke through her maidenhead in one stroke. Aline shouted into his mouth, and she dug her nails in as hard as she could. It was partly natural reaction, but she also had his words in mind. It seemed only fair that men share the pain.

After a moment he released her lips and grinned. "As bad as that, eh?" He moved slightly within her. "Does that hurt?"

She marveled at his control, for she could see the same tense desire in him as both lingered and gathered in her. "It's nothing. Go on. Please. Go on."

"You are a pearl among women," he whispered, and began to relax his control, moving more strongly, then almost violently, in and out.

It did hurt, and in places other than her torn membrane, but it was wonderful, too, both in her burning body, and in what she saw of him. She grasped his shoulders and raised her legs to lock them around him in an act of sheer, crude possession.

He grimaced as he disintegrated, choking out her name. She trembled, loving every moment of his surrender to her powers.

Collapsing onto his side, he gathered her into his arms, nuzzling at her neck as she cherished his sweaty chest with her hand.

"I think I'm finally conquered," she murmured. "Isn't it lovely?"

"That’s because you ambushed me after all. I'm your prisoner for all time."

"Of course." She ran a hand smugly down over his wonderful body. "Isn't that the way it's supposed to be?"

He rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him so her breasts were ready to flickering tongue. "I do hope so. I'm a very contented slave. Now, give me your commands. What do you wish me to do, O mistress mine?"

Chapter 23

Galeran approached Heywood this time at a more leisurely pace, though his mind was once more full of love-making. Tonight, in their new bed, he and Jehanne could make love as they had not done since his return, but with Jehanne by his side there was nothing to race to.

They'd lingered in London to see Aline and Raoul sail off to their new home. There had certainly been nothing muted about the new couple's happiness, and he hoped it lasted them all life long.

When Jehanne was healed, they'd begun the slow journey north again, stopping at various places to visit relatives and cement alliances.

There'd been sleeping quarters along the way that were suitable for lovemaking, but he and Jehanne had agreed to wait. It was like waiting for a wedding, a new start. They'd start afresh in Heywood, where he had always pictured her.

And now there was Heywood, rising before him as it had during his dreams in the Holy Land. His home. Home of all he valued in the world.

Lord William and his men had split off at Brome, and Hubert's party had separated in Hey Hamlet. Galeran rode up to Heywood with Jehanne by his side, and no army sat before his walls. This time, at his approach, the great gates opened to welcome the lord home, and his people cheered and smiled.

Jehanne rode beside him, and deliberately, he carried Donata. There was no need to make announcements about what had happened in London, for the story would spread on its own. Everyone would know that Jehanne had suffered for her sin, and been forgiven.

He still wished that had not occurred, but he knew it would make everything easier.

All was restored.

Wasn't it?

Something in his heart denied it.

He dismounted and, Jehanne at his side, entered his keep, where Jehanne took Donata away to be tended by the women. The dogs ran forward, and he greeted them, then took ale to rinse away the dust of the journey.

It could not rinse away a lingering bitter taste.

Jehanne returned to his side, once more the comfortable, efficient lady of her domain, the wife he had longed for through those arid years. Galeran looked around the hall, thinking that perhaps, in a way, everything was the better for their adventures, the more precious for almost having been lost.

And yet ...

While she spoke to a servant about some minor problem, he wandered into the solar to look at the big new bed. This was what he'd fought for, wasn't it? His peaceful home, his beloved wife, his marriage bed. Idly he picked up an ornament, the ivory rose.

The petal fell off.

Then it hit him like the blow of an ax.

His son.

His son was dead.

Sharp pain made him look at his hand. More white petals were shattered, now touched with red. His blood. Jerusalem.

But the void that engulfed him was not Jerusalem. It was his lost child. His son was nothing. He had no memories— no picture in his mind of a smile, no sounds of a babbling voice. No smell. No feel . . .

For him, Gallot did not exist.

No wonder he'd cut off all who'd tried to speak of the child. No wonder he'd wanted to kill Lowick. It was not so much for the adultery. It was for this. For knowing the son he did not.

He heard Jehanne calling him, but he slipped away, down to kneel in the graveyard by the small stone.

But there was nothing there except a name, nothing in his heart but an emptiness growing larger by the moment, threatening to swallow all the hard-won joy.

A whisper of cloth and a hint of perfume warned him of Jehanne, but he didn't want her here at this moment. She had what he had not.

She had a child in her mind to remember.

Sinking to her knees beside him, she held out a roll of parchment. Courtesy made him take it, though he had no idea what it could be and even less interest. To take it, he had to put down the broken rose. He heard her gasp at the sight of the broken, bloodstained petals, but at this moment he couldn't care that she'd be saddened.

He laid the pieces on the grave beside the bush that bore real roses. Jehanne had real roses. She had memories. He just had shattered ivory.

Because it would be cruel to reject whatever she was offering, he hid his bitterness, untied the ribbon, and uncurled the sheets. A number of sheets with a long knotted string in the middle.

He couldn't help thinking that she'd been extremely wasteful with parchment, but then he read the first words.

On Saint Stephen's Day, in the Blessed Year of Our Lord, 1099, was born at Heywood Castle in Northumbria, Galeran, son of Galeran and Jehanne, his wife, lord and lady of this demesne . . .

He looked at her, seeing tears glimmering in her anxious eyes. "I had the scribe write it. I knew you were missing so much, and I wanted it for you, even though I never suspected ..."

Heart pounding, he read on.

His length on the day of his birth is to the first knot in the string. All the women say he is a good length and will be a tall man. He breathed quickly and well and moved his bowels on the first day, and though the substance was unpleasant, the wise women say it is good.

Galeran looked a question at her.

"Brother Cyril thought it improper of me to record such things. But it is a strange matter they pass at first. Like something from the bottom of a pond, but sticky."