Juliana Garnett (23 page)

Guy managed a stiff bow. “Some women are prone to hysteria, my liege. As you can see, I am not so maimed I cannot get about.”

“Yea, God’s mercy for that. It could have been much worse for you. Or me.”

Annice did not miss the odd note in Rolf’s voice, and ’twas obvious that Guy did not either. He grew even stiffer, his jaw set as he said between his teeth, “I would risk injury again under the same circumstances, milord.”

For a long moment Rolf said nothing. Then he said slowly, “I believe you would, Guy. I have not thanked you for coming to my aid yesterday. Forgive me.”

Some of the tension eased from Guy’s tautly held frame, and he nodded. “Yea, lord. I need no gratitude. I am your sworn knight. ’Tis my duty to come to your aid.”

Their gazes met and held, and Annice had the impression that she was missing something important. Then she thought she must be mistaken, for Rolf gave a barely perceptible nod and turned back to the man on his left.

Sir Guy looked down at her again. “Milady,” he said softly in English, “do not look so a’frighted. Thou will be well this eve. Believe me when I tell thee that I will do all in my power to see thee kept safely. Thou hast a good husband in yon lord, though he oft be quick of temper.”

Puzzled, Annice started to speak, but Guy shook his head. “Nay, not now, milady. I am weary, and maun return to my straw pallet before I fall and make a fool of myself. God be with thee.”

A spate of laughter drowned out her murmur of protest, and Annice watched as Guy made his way clumsily through
the crowd. Jugglers and acrobats careened over the rushes in agile antics, and a troupe of small trained dogs leaped through hoops and scaled tiny ladders for the crowd’s approval. One of the castle hounds apparently took offense at the presence of these intruders in his domain and made a mad rush toward a black-and-white spotted terrier. Shrieks of laughter greeted the owner’s efforts to retrieve his trained dog from the gaping maws of the huge brindle hound, but ’twas only when Rolf gave a short, loud whistle that the guilty dog left off his pursuit and trotted obediently to his master.

Laying a hand upon the dog’s massive head, Rolf commanded him to lie at his feet, and the brindle hound obeyed. Annice gazed down at the dog staring adoringly up at his master.

Was that how she would appear? Enthralled and obedient, a dog to be whistled near or shoved indifferently aside? Nay, she would not. With every breath in her body she would resist being as Rolf had once suggested—a bitch brought to heel.

When she glanced up from the dog, her eyes met Rolf’s. He was gazing at her steadily, an enigmatic light in his eyes that made her throat tighten. Did he expect it of her—that blind obedience? Then he would be sorely disappointed to find that his new wife had no intention of being crushed by him. A faint, mocking smile touched the corners of his mouth, and she wondered if he mocked her growing apprehension of the night.

’Twould be much too soon for her when they were escorted to the bridal chamber. She knew her duty well, and knew that to stay his marital rights could invalidate the marriage. If she did so, it could also cause a conflict between her vassals and his—loyalists against suspected rebels—’twould be a disaster.

But to yield to him would mean the shattering of her resistance and any hope she had of surviving, soul intact. And she did not know what she would do when the moment came.…

O
nly Belle attended her mistress in the shadowed bridal chamber lit by several branches of candles. Fitful light flickered over her as she gave a final, nervous touch to the embroidered silk bed curtains. Guests crowded into the chamber, laughing merrily and making ofttimes crude jests as they escorted the bridal pair inside.

Moving to stand stiffly in the center of the chamber by a table laden with wine and a platter of cold meat and other tidbits, Annice glanced toward her husband when Belle murmured that the bed was made ready. Rolf stood nearby, silent and withdrawn, drinking wine from a cup. One of the guests jostled his elbow, entreating his lord to be more forward or else he chanced losing his bride to another.

Rolf set down his cup and managed a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Such as you, Sir Ralf? As a sheriff in Lincolnshire, you must be used to making terms of unequal surrender.”

That jest produced general laughter and a flush from Sir Ralf Ridel, who was in charge of wresting taxes from the
shires and tenants of Lincolnshire. He had much trouble with some baronies, who rebelled, and even those loyal to the king ofttimes protested his harshness.

A sly smile curved Sir Ralf’s mouth. “Yea, milord, but I have had the most effort claiming your taxes. ’Tis well-known that you are close-fisted and miserly with what is yours. I would not dare to make free with your money—or your wife.”

Laughter greeted that sally, and even Rolf smiled. He glanced at Annice and saw that she was pale and trembling. ’Twas best to end this play, before she swooned and he was the butt of even cruder jests.

“As you have so strongly suggested, Sir Ralf,” he said loudly enough to be heard by all, “ ’tis time I was alone with my bride. We are no novices to be lessoned on the coming joys of marriage, and lest some of you wish to feel the prick of my sword, you will depart swiftly.”

“Aye,” Sir Ralf retorted, “ ’tis time for your bride to feel the prick of your nether blade, I think!”

Raucous laughter and ribald jests accompanied this reply. Finally, at the insistence of Rolf and some of his strongest vassals, the guests were firmly removed from the chamber. Vachel went with them, and loud merriment could be heard in the wide corridors as they returned to the hall to continue the feasting.

Watching as Belle murmured softly to her mistress and began helping her disrobe, Rolf felt a growing disquiet. The moment he had anticipated since first bringing her to Dragonwyck was at hand, yet he could feel no joy in it. There was only an overpowering sense of emptiness.

She would be his before the night ended, yet what would he possess? Certainly, the lady’s body. But more? Nay, there was no love in the eyes she turned on him of late, only a growing apprehension. He had seen that look turned on him before, with his first bride. But Margerie had been a maid still; Annice was no virgin and would know well what was about.

Chiding himself for being a romantic fool, Rolf still longed for more than just physical release. He longed for what Edmund had talked of, of soft whispers in the night,
an intimacy between man and woman that kept them close in spirit if not distance. There had been little enough of love in his life, ’twas true, and he had thought he had not missed it, save for the love of his son, an entirely different matter.

But this—yea, this weighed on him heavily, for he realized that some small kernel of need in him desired the emotion that Edmund had spoken of so often. He’d seen it before in others and had known instantly what existed between them. In these times love between a husband and wife was rare, and to be more greatly treasured for that fact.

A soft murmur distracted him from his thoughts, and Rolf looked up to see that the maidservant had finished disrobing her mistress. There was a swift glimpse of ivory skin and glorious, unbound hair streaming in heavy russet waves before Belle held up a voluminous robe to drape over Annice’s shoulders.

Pulling aside the filmy curtains enveloping the bed, Belle assisted her mistress, holding tight to the ermine-trimmed robe to shield her from his eyes. Rolf smothered a smile at this last defense and reached for his cup of wine. Lady Annice commanded swift loyalty from those around her, ’twas apparent. She had certainly gained Belle’s love and respect in the few weeks she had been at Dragonwyck, though young Belle had long been a serf of these lands.

When Annice was hidden behind the silk bed hangings and between the sheets with the coverlets pulled up over her, Belle took a moment to straighten the curtains hanging about the bed, then draped the discarded robe over a stool at the bed’s side. There was still a chill in the air despite the woven wall coverings to prevent drafts; a coal-filled brazier emanated heat and the smell of smoldering spices from the center of the chamber.

A slight current of air made the gauzy bed hangings flutter gently, allowing Rolf a glimpse of Annice propped upon the goose-feather pillows. In the gloom of candlelight and shadowed bed, her face glowed pale and ethereal. He had a brief impression of wide, haunted eyes and bare shoulders before the bed hangings drifted closed again. His grip tightened on the cup of wine.

Jésu
, but she looked like a lamb led to the slaughter. Did
she fear his touch so greatly? Or did she fear that he would ravish her like a predatory beast, without thought of her feelings?

Rolf took an involuntary step toward the bed, his intention as yet unformed, but a discreet knock on the chamber door made him pause. Corbet, his squire, entered hard upon the echoes of the sound, face carefully composed. Obviously someone had been tutoring him on proper behavior, for his usual feckless gaiety was much subdued.

Irritated and grateful at the same time at the interruption, Rolf bade him enter and suffered the young man to begin undressing him. ’Twas part of the squires duty to tend his lord in all things, dressing and undressing, the tending of his armor, weapons, and most important—his person. Never before had it chafed Rolf to be tended, but this eve he bore it with barely concealed impatience.

Corbet of Warrington had been sent to Dragonwyck several years before as page and only recently earned his silver spurs. The importance of his rank weighed heavily upon him, being so recently acquired, and he tended to take longer than usual in performing his duties.

Unclasping the ornate gold pin formed like a dragon’s head that held Rolf’s scarlet mantle of light wool, Corbet removed the garment and draped it carefully over a chair. Then he reached for the sable tunic emblazoned with a gold dragon, the beast formed of tiny squares of gold sewn one atop the other. Ornate braid edged the neck and sleeves, glittering as he pulled it over Rolf’s head.

“A truly magnificent tunic, milord,” Corbet murmured admiringly, and Rolf shot him an impatient glance.

“Yea, Corbet, but I would have this done quickly. I am in no mood to suffer compliments or delay.”

After giving his lord a startled glance of comprehension, Corbet more hastily relieved Rolf of the rest of his garments. Undertunic, belt, breeches, and soft calf-leather boots were quickly removed. With swift, efficient motions Corbet wrapped him in an ermine-trimmed robe before he bent to tend the discarded boots.

“Leave that,” Rolf commanded. “There is the morrow for such tasks.”

During the time it took Corbet to complete his duties, Rolf had managed to form his thoughts into a more coherent direction. He could not let his passion rule his actions.

Still, when the squire had finally quit the chamber and the echoes of the door’s closing had faded, Rolf found himself moving toward the high, wide bed. It was deeply shadowed, fitful light reaching inside the bed curtains. He stood still a moment, holding back the curtain, his eyes resting on his wife’s face.

She stared silently up at him, her hair spread in a glowing mass upon the pillows and over her shoulders. Rolf took a deep breath, unprepared for the rush of emotion that swept through him. Yea, she was truly beautiful, this changeling wife of his. From haughty hostage to frightened maid to seductive siren, she had captured his thoughts too often to be ignored now.

There was the creak of ropes holding the mattress when he lowered his weight to the bed, the sound overloud in the gloomy silence. He sat for a moment, not knowing what to say, searching his mind for a neutral topic that would put them both at ease.

Finally Annice spoke, her lips twitching slightly with humor as she asked, “Do you always wear your robe to bed, milord?”

Ermine tickled his bare skin as he shifted position and the robe slid over his thighs. “Nay, not always.” He paused. “Only when I feel awkward.”

“And do you? Feel awkward?” Her eyes were large and dark blue with surprise in the shadows, gazing steadily at him.

“Yea, wife, I do.” A wry smile twisted his mouth. “For all that has gone before, I cannot say that I feel comfortable with you now.”

After a moment’s silence, when neither of them moved nor spoke, Annice slid a hand toward him, her fingertips brushing against the hand he had placed on the mattress to bear his weight. He looked down at her pale hand, so fair and fragile against his much darker skin. Compelled by some emotion he could not name, he moved his hand to curl his fingers around hers, holding tightly.

For long moments they sat that way, while candlelight flickering in erratic patterns and shadows wove in and out around them. The smell of spice was heavy in the air, emanating from the brazier. A faint drift of her perfume wafted toward him, teasing him with sweet suggestion.

Rolf inhaled sharply. Though he had no intention of allowing himself to be mired in a morass of emotions, neither did he intend to tarry like a green lad in the first flush of love. This was his lawful wedded wife, and he would take what was his by right. She offered it freely enough, with the gentle touch of her hand and steady regard. Yea, there would be no ghosts between them this night, nothing but the sweet pleasure he had anticipated for what had seemed like forever.