Always (6 page)

“I am dead,” she thought she heard him mutter through his hands. “My head shall decorate Westminster for sure.”

Frowning at his misery, Rosamunde dropped to her haunches and eyed him uncertainly. “My lord?” she murmured.

“I should have married Delia,” he continued. “Cuckolded I may have been, but better cuckolded than drawn and quartered.”

“Who is Delia?” Rosamunde asked, annoyed.

“My betrothed, and the reason I am surely going to die,” he answered matter-of-factly, then almost conversationally added, “If she had been faithful, I would not be in this fix. Hell, if she had at least been smarter about her infidelity I would not be leaving here with my head on a pike.”

“You are betrothed?” Rosamunde asked with confusion.

“Aye. Well, I was, but then I caught her in the stables with Glanville and I broke the betrothal, sent a messenger to inform my father, and rode to Shambley to get drunk, which is of course a day closer to Burkhart Castle than Rosshuen's home. You see now if Shambley's father had built his damn castle a little farther away, it would be Rosshuen in this fix instead of me!”

“I see,” Rosamunde said carefully, wondering if her father had married her to a madman.

“There is an awful lot of talking going on in there!” Rosamunde and Aric both gave a start at the words shouted through the door, listening with amazement as the king added, “I want action! I will have the proof that this marriage was consummated!”

“They are waiting outside the door?” Rosamunde hissed in disbelief. Aric couldn't help himself; he began to laugh. There was an edge of hysteria to his laughter. Could the situation get any more difficult?

“Burkhart!”

The angry warning in that voice got through Aric's moment of madness. He stood abruptly to tug his tunic off over his head, then tossed it atop his hauberk. Reaching for his breeches, he considered the best way to approach the situation. He was fretting over it so much that he didn't notice the approval on his bride's face as she took in his wide, muscular chest and flat stomach. He
did
notice the way her face suddenly fell in disappointment, however, when he finished removing his mail stockings and brais.

“What?” he asked with dismay, pausing, brais still in hand.

“Well.” She hesitated, then admitted in a near whisper, “I am just surprised, is all. Your cucumber is not nearly as large as Angus's.”

Aric stiffened at that, annoyance rising up within him despite knowing that no man's “cucumber” could possibly be as large as a bull's. He straightened abruptly and snapped, “'Tis large enough for the job at hand.”

“Aye, I am sure 'tis,” Rosamunde soothed quickly.

“And 'tis not called a
cucumber,”
he added irritably, his pride stung enough that he did not care if those waiting outside the door heard. “Or a bull-thing.”

“What is it called then?”

“Various things,” he muttered, considering several of the names used before choosing the one he liked best. “Some call it a cock.”

“Nay.” Peering at the appendage in question, she shook her head firmly.

“Nay?” He frowned.

“A cock is a male chicken, my lord. That looks nothing like a male chicken.”

His mouth moved briefly, nothing coming out of it as his face went from a lovely shade of chartreuse to a rather violent maroon. Then he snapped, “Manhood, then. You may call it my manhood.”

Rosamunde's gaze dropped to it doubtfully once more. It seemed far too small and shriveled for anyone to want it to be representative of his manhood, but he did seem to be sensitive about it, so she felt it best to keep that opinion to herself. Still, it was much smaller than what Eustice had described, and she did have worries that he might not be able to perform adequately with such a handicap. On the other hand, it would be much less painful than she had expected. It was hardly the size of a baby's fat little leg. Brightening at that thought, Rosamunde flashed him a smile and quickly returned to her hands and knees, poking up her behind in preparation for his attentions.

“All right. I am prepared. You may insert your cu–Er…
manhood
and stir it about now.”

“Stir it about?”

“What are you two doing in there? Exchanging recipes?” King Henry snapped, the door shuddering under a blow. “I will have an end to this talk of stirring and such. Let us have some action!”

Rolling her eyes at her father's impatience, Rosamunde glanced at her new husband and grimaced. “Well, that is what Sister Eustice called it,” she explained in an impatient hiss, then added, “Though it looked more to me as if Angus was just plowing in and out.”

Aric gaped at her and dropped onto the side of the bed with dismay. Good Lord, what had he gotten himself into? Never had he considered that bedding his bride might be such a trying experience.
God's truth
! He did not think he could accomplish the feat. She was a lovely woman, but her mind seemed full of the oddest damn things. Insert it and stir it about, indeed!

Considering his distraught countenance, she sighed. “Is aught amiss, my lord?”

“Aye,” he answered heavily. “You seem to have the wrong idea about all of this.”

Eyebrows rising, she sat back again to face him and firmly shook her head. “Nay, my lord, Eustice was most plain about it.”

“Aye, well. Eustice was wrong. Men do it differently than bulls.”

“Nay.”

“Nay?”

“You are wrong, my lord. I have seen many animals having at it and—”

“Having at it?”

“Aye. And they all seem to do it the same way—whether they are cats, pigs, horses, or bulls. You may trust me on this, my lord.”

Aric merely stared at her bleakly. With all of this animal husbandry as her source of knowledge, it seemed to him that persuading her otherwise without simply showing her was impossible. On that thought, he shifted closer, grasped her by the arms, and pulled her into an embrace.

Rosamunde gasped in surprise, then stiffened as his mouth covered hers. She began to struggle at once, opening her mouth to protest, then found herself with a mouthful of tongue, which she promptly tried to spit back out. Turning away, she finally managed to free herself from him and said with a gasp, “Nay! 'Tis a sin. 'Sides, you cannot pass your seed like that, my lord. You know what must be done.”

So saying, she turned away to kneel on her hands and knees before him on the bed, her derriere directly before his face.

Grimacing, Aric opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he would have said slid abruptly from his mind when she suddenly reached back, caught the hem of her gown, and dragged it up over her hips, leaving her lovely
behind bare to the world. Or, more specifically, to his wide eyes.

Good Lord!
His gaze dropped briefly away from the image of her buttocks to his manhood, and he grimaced at the vagaries of the male body. His manhood had shown absolutely no interest in this ordeal since ‘his' bride's mention of cucumbers, bull-things, or stirring things about. Even the kiss had done little for that problem. She had remained so still and unresponsive under his attentions that all he had felt was a sort of desperate panic. Now, however, she flashed her round, pink cheeks at him and his manhood deigned to awake. In fact, it was even now urging him simply to mount the woman, and slide himself into her moist heat, as she was requesting. That would not do at all, of course. There would be no moist heat if he did not see to producing some in her, but it was damnably difficult to figure out how, should she not even wish him to kiss her. He was at a loss.

 

“My lord.” Rosamunde glanced over her shoulder with irritation at his delay, then paused as her gaze fell on his man-thing. Much to her surprise, it seemed to have grown since she had last seen it. Impossible, she told herself, but there was the proof of it. He
was
larger than when she had last looked. Impressive. Amazing, really. Though, of course, it was still not as large as the cucumber Eustice had described. Shrugging such considerations away for now, she glanced at his face to see the irritation there and sighed. “Is there something amiss, my lord? Can you not simply get this business done? My father is waiting on us.”

“Time is almost up,” came the king's voice through the door. Aric grimaced as he glanced to the chest to see that, indeed, as he had been suffering the tortures of the damned, the candle had burned away three-quarters of his
allotted time. Cursing, he mounted the bed behind her and grasped her hips, then paused. The situation aside, the king aside, and even her unfavorable comparison of him to her damn bull aside, he could not simply plow into her and cause her the pain he knew such behavior would inflict.

Sighing, he considered her back and shoulders briefly, then leaned forward slightly and slid his hands up her waist until he was cupping her breast beneath the chaste cloth of her gown.

 

Rosamunde stiffened, confusion running through her, as she felt his large, rough hands close over her breasts. She had no idea what he thought he was about, and Eustice's words were pounding in her head:
Lips are for speaking and breasts for milking—and that is that.
Did he think to milk her like a cow? Good Lord, her new husband was proving himself incredibly slow in doing what needed doing.

She felt something bump about between her thighs like a curious dog sniffing; then his mouth pressed against the base of her neck. She decided to get this ordeal over with. Bracing her hands on the top of the hard cot, Rosamunde thrust backward into him, impaling herself with one determined thrust. Then she promptly commenced a howling that had the king pounding at the door.

“What the devil is going on in there? Burkhart! What have you done to my daughter? Burkhart!”

 

Aric sighed as he heard those angry words over his new bride's howls. Marriage to the king's daughter, as he had feared, was turning out to be quite a trial.

“Burkhart!”

“Just a minute,” Aric shouted impatiently toward the door, then grasped Rosamunde's hips when she started to pull away from him. “You, too. Just stay still for a minute.” He felt her stiffen again and sighed. “Wait until the pain passes, else you will just hurt yourself more.”

He saw her head bob in a brief nod and he grimaced to himself, grateful at least that she had stopped her wailing. After another moment, during which he felt himself shrink within her, he cleared his throat and glanced at the back of her head. “I am going to withdraw now.”

She hesitated, then peered back uncertainly. “Are you not going to stir it about and plow in and out?”

Aric felt sympathy tug at him as he took in her tear-filled eyes and flushed face. As hard as this had been on him, for her it had been worse. Yet here she was, ready to allow him to continue if necessary. “I think 'twould be better if we just saved that for next time.”

“Thank you.” She sniffled, and he rolled his eyes, wondering if there would ever be a next time. She would probably never let him near her again. She certainly had made this about as hard on herself as she possibly could have.
Good Lord!
It hadn't exactly been a joy for him, either. Muttering under his breath, he drew himself away from her. The moment he was clear of her body, she went limp, collapsing on the bed in a heap as if he had taken her backbone with him.

Shaking his head, Aric shifted off the bed, turned, and offered her a hand, helping her to her feet when she accepted it. Once she was standing, he tore the top linen from the bed, used it to quickly clean himself of the traces of blood their merging had caused, then handed it to her and moved to the end of the bed to quickly don his clothes. He dressed with his back to her, giving her privacy to tend to her own needs, then blew out the candle, took the linen from her, held his arm out for her to place her hand on, and opened the door. They exited the room together, husband and wife, two strangers who had done what needed to be done.

“It's about damned time! What the hell did you do to my baby?”

Aric paused, drawing Rosamunde to a halt as the king suddenly blocked their path out of the room. He wasn't at all surprised by the man's ferocious scowl. He was a bit startled, however, when his young bride suddenly stepped in front of him protectively.

“Nothing, Papa,” she said, then she flushed and stammered, “W-well, I mean, h-he d-did—” Turning suddenly, she grabbed the linen from Aric and shoved it at her father, saying, “He did what he was supposed to do.”

King Henry's frown faded somewhat, and his face colored with slight embarrassment as the linen fell open, revealing the small stains. “Aye, well…Of course he did.” Nodding, he handed the linen over to Bishop Shrewsbury. “There's the proof. There will be no annulment. The boy did it. For king and country, eh, lad?” he joked lamely, then cleared his throat. He took
Rosamunde's arm and started abruptly up the hall, dragging her along with him and leaving the others to follow again.

He remained silent as he rushed her through the corridors and out into the courtyard, then gestured for the others to wait there as he urged her into the stables.

“You are all right, are you not?” he asked, drawing her to a halt inside the stable doors and turning an anxious look down on her.

“Aye, of course,” Rosamunde said, flushing slightly. She would die before admitting to the tenderness she was sporting between her legs.

“I am sorry it had to be so rushed. I am sorry for a lot of things,” he added with a grimace. “I should have spent more time with you over the years. Visited you more often. But there was so much to do, so many problems, and time passes so quickly.”

“'Tis all right, Father. I understand,” Rosamunde assured him, even managing a quirky smile. “You had a country to run.”

“Aye, but you…Your mother…” Reaching out, he caressed her cheek, his eyes filling with a combination of nostalgia and grief. “You look so like her, child. At times it pains my heart to look on you.” Sighing, he let his hand drop. “Had she lived…”

“Things would have been different,” Rosamunde whispered, her throat suddenly tight.

“Very different.” A single tear slipped from one of his gray eyes, and he turned abruptly away, moving into the first stall to begin to saddle the horse that waited there.

Glancing around, Rosamunde spied Bishop Shrewsbury's saddle and quickly moved to collect it. She began saddling the horse in the second stall. Leading his own horse out of its stall a moment later, Henry glanced to where she was tightening the last strap on Shrewsbury's mount and shook his head.

“You should have left that for me. You have ruined your gown.”

Leading the horse into the aisle, Rosamunde glanced down at her dress, then quickly dusted the dirt away as she paused before him. “Nay. 'Tis just in need of a cleaning.”

He smiled slightly. “Would that all problems could be washed away as easily.”

Eyes sharpening, Rosamunde peered worriedly at his grim face. “Things are not so bad, are they? Surely 'tis just rumor that John has joined Richard?”

“All will be well,” her father assured her firmly, then caught both reins in one hand and her hand in the other. “Come, I would speak to your husband ere I go.”

 

Aric was leaning against the convent gates, away from the others, when his wife and her father came out of the stables. He watched the king leave the horses with Shrewsbury, who waited by their bags; then he gave his daughter a gentle push toward the waiting nuns, and made straight for Aric. His sovereign came straight to the point.

“I know there was no discussion of dower, and you must fear I would deposit my daughter on you without one, but that is not the case. I value her much too highly for that. Shrews—” he began, glancing around, then paused as the other man hurried forward. “Give me the—Thank you.”

Turning back to Aric with the parchment the man held out, he presented it to him. “This gives you title to Goodhall in northern England—so long as you are married to Rosamunde. Should she be widowed, the estate goes with her. And—” He turned back to the bishop again and gestured.

The cleric immediately returned to four large sacks he had been standing near. Lifting two of them, he carried them forward, handed them to King Henry, then turned
away to hurry back for the other two. All four were set on the ground before Aric.

“These are listed as part of that estate. Four sacks of gold. Use them as you will, but be sure to purchase her some fine clothing. Her mother looked lovely in silver. Make sure she has a silver gown.” He paused and frowned at Aric's dubious expression. “I shall not be an interfering father. I trust you will treat her fairly and well.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Of course. Despite my words, I did not pick you lightly, Aric. I have considered this a long time. And I have long thought you would suit my Rosamunde. As I have always respected your father, I did not wish to break the contract he arranged for you as a child. However, I was not sorry to hear it was broken. It was fortuitous for me—and for you, too, I think.”

He turned to gaze at the girl surrounded by weeping nuns, missing the expression that flashed across Aric's face. “Care well for her, Burkhart. She is my real treasure. The only thing of value I leave behind.” His gaze returned to Aric. “You will come to love her quickly. She is like her mother. No man could resist her pure and gentle heart and spirit. She is all things good. She will be devoted to you. Treat her gently…Or else.”

Spinning abruptly on his heel, the king moved back toward where he had left his daughter, leaving Aric to wonder what the “or else” entailed. It wasn't hard for him to figure out. Being drawn and quartered. Suffering the rack. Beheading. The options were endless. Dear God, Aric thought wearily. What had he gotten himself into?

 

King Henry scowled as he approached the flock of women surrounding his daughter. His look was enough to send most of them scurrying away. Ignoring the abbess and Sister Eustice, who refused to be frightened from her
side, Henry caught Rosamunde up in a quick, fierce hug, then set her away and smiled sadly. “You grow more like your mother every time I see you. Except for your hair. That is mine.” He reached out to fondle a fiery tress briefly; then his gaze sharpened on her. “Do not take the temper that goes with it out on your husband. Try always to think before you speak or act. There is much my temper has done that I would have undone. Often, once words are spoken…” He let the tress drop and shrugged.

“Father?” she murmured uncertainly.

Forcing a smile, Henry hugged her again. “All will be well, little one. I have picked a fine man to husband you. He will be patient and kind and caring. Be a good wife for him in return, hmm?”

“Aye, Papa.”

“There's my good girl.” Patting her awkwardly, he nodded, then turned to walk away. Rosamunde had the oddest feeling that it was the last time she would see him. Spurred by that sudden fear, she chased after him, hugging him from behind before he mounted his horse.

“I love you, Papa,” she whispered.

Henry paused and turned in her embrace, hugging her close as well. “I love you, too, child. And so shall your husband, but you must promise me to obey him. Always. Promise?”

When he pulled back to look at her, Rosamunde nodded solemnly. “I promise, Papa.”

Nodding, the king set her aside again and mounted his horse. Rosamunde watched as he rode away through the gates with Bishop Shrewsbury. He looked straight ahead as he went, never looking back. Or at least, she didn't think he did, but her vision was rather blurred with tears as she watched.

When the two horsemen finally disappeared from view over a rolling hill, she turned back to the convent yard to find only Sister Eustice and the abbess still present. The other nuns had returned to their duties, having already
said their good-byes. As for the two men, she learned where they had gone the moment she paused before the abbess.

“Your husband and Lord Shambley have gone to prepare the horses to leave.”

“Leave?” Rosamunde exclaimed with dismay.

“Aye. I extended an invitation to them to spend the night here, but they refused.”

When Rosamunde merely stared at her with a lost expression, Adela reached out to hand her a small cloth sack. “These are your things. Eustice packed them for you. I had her put some cheese, fruit, and bread in there for the journey as well.” Then she patted her hand gently. “'Twill be all right. You are frightened right now, I know, and that is to be expected, considering this abrupt change in your life, but all will be well.”

The clip-clop of horses' hooves drew their attention then as her husband and Lord Robert led three horses out of the stables. Rosamunde blinked in surprise at the sight of the third horse all saddled and ready to go.

“Marigold is yours now,” Sister Eustice murmured, noting her startled expression as she gazed at the horse. “A wedding gift from us. So you will not go off totally alone and friendless.”

Tears filling her eyes, Rosamunde swung around and hugged first one woman, then the other. “I will miss you,” she said with a gasp, then whirled away and rushed blindly toward the men and waiting horses.

Her husband quickly helped her to mount, then turned to get onto his own horse. Taking her reins in hand with his own, he nodded at the abbess and Sister Eustice, then urged his horse into a trot that took them quickly through the convent gate.

Tears rolling down her cheeks, Rosamunde stared staunchly forward, unable to look back. She was leaving the only home she had ever known.

 

The abbess and Sister Eustice watched them leave with tear-filled eyes. It was Adela who finally closed the convent gate on their departing figures and urged Eustice away from the door.

“'Tis frightening sometimes, is it not?” she commented. They moved slowly back up the path.

“What?” Sister Eustice asked, brushing her tears unhappily away.

“Life,” she answered solemnly. “This morning she was ours, and to be with us forever. Tonight she is gone.”

Eustice paused, her expression horrified. “Surely she will visit?”

The abbess took her arm to get her walking again. “Mayhap, but she will not be our little Rosamunde now. She will be Lady Burkhart of Goodhall.”

“Goodhall.” Eustice tried the name out, then smiled slightly. “'Tis a fitting place for our Rosamunde.”

“Aye. 'Tis fitting.”

“Mayhap this was God's plan for her, after all.”

“Of course it was. Everything comes about through God's plan,” the abbess murmured quietly.

 

“Your bride does not appear to be much of a rider.”

Eyebrows rising slightly, Aric peered over his shoulder at the woman trailing them. They had started out on either side of the young woman's horse. His mind awhirl with thoughts and worries about the marital state that had suddenly been thrust on him, Aric had quickly lost track of her. As soon as they had hit the trees, in fact, they had had to switch to riding single file and he had taken the lead, leaving Robert to take up the back behind his bride.

The trees had thinned out somewhat, however, and Robert had just now moved up beside Aric to murmur his comment. To say she was not much of a rider, he saw now, could in no way be interpreted as an exaggeration. If anything, it was an understatement. The woman was bouncing around upon the back of her mare like a lumpy
sack, going up as the horse was down, her bottom slamming down again as the horse's back came up. It seemed that, while she might have worked daily in the stables with the animals, exercising the horses by riding them had not been a part of her duties. He would bet Goodhall Castle that she had never before even been on horseback. And while he pitied the horse she rode, it was her he was more worried about. Or, to be more specific, her bottom. If it were not sore yet, it surely would be soon, and Aric could hardly make her ride while in pain.

Noting the discomfort on her face, he frowned. He had set a mild pace at first, but had every intention of picking up the speed as soon as the trees thinned out a bit more. That was the fastest way for them to travel, since they did not yet have the benefit of his men accompanying them.

Aric supposed that the three of them could have rested the night at the convent rather than setting out at once, but he had not missed Robert's discomfort there. He himself had not felt quite at home, either. There was nothing like an abbey full of holy brides of God to make a man feel an interloping sinner. Besides, he knew Robert was worried about his father. The man had been at death's door not long ago. He had seemed to improve just before the king's arrival, but had not yet been out of the woods long enough to make them comfortable. He knew his friend would prefer to return as promptly as possible.

Of course, the distraction of traveling also helped Aric ignore the fact that his entire life had just taken a decided turn. For better or worse, he was not yet sure, and until he was, he was more than happy to delay having to face the fact. So he had decided upon an immediate return. Unfortunately, it was not to be a comfortable ride. Without their men, they had to depend on speed to make the trip safe. The roads were full of bandits and thieves who were more than happy to prey on the weak. Two men and a woman traveling alone would be attractive prey, especially nobles.

He had intended to ride hard and fast, trading back at the stables for the horses they had exchanged on the way out and traveling through the night to reach Shambley the following morn. That was when he had assumed that his wife had been trained properly in all things. Now he realized that he had assumed too much. The girl had obviously not been taught to ride. He wondered briefly what other training had been neglected, then shrugged such worries away. Her lack of skills would matter little if he did not get her home unscathed, which he might not do at this pace. Unfortunately, it was becoming obvious he could not force her to a faster gait. She would bounce right off her mount.