Lavender Vows (2 page)

“Th-thank you, sir.” She hated that her voice quavered, but ’twas so foreign to have a man so close to her, so gentle, yet so imposing. “And now, I must return.”

Bernard could only watch her go, hurrying down the hall of the stable. Though he felt uneasy with her request to let her go alone, he abided by her wishes and stayed until she was safely out of sight.

Then, he turned to Leonard, the stable boy who now knelt beside the grey cat, and asked, “Who is the lady? What is her name?”

“’Twas Lady Joanna, my lord.”

Bernard bit back a grin. At the least the young boy had recognized his station, although the Lady Joanna had not. “An’ how does she know this stable so well?”

“She is my lord’s daughter—the Lord of Wyckford’s daughter.”

“The sister of the bride, then?”

“Aye, my lord.”

Then Bernard suddenly remembered that he had been invited to a wedding, that his father would surely miss him by now…and that he had dallied long enough.

And, at the nonce, he would search out the lady to see if he could find her within the keep.

~ * ~

Unfortunately for Bernard, when he returned to the great hall, most of the men—bridegroom included—were in their cups, and the celebration had begun to wane. Since the musicians had begun to disperse,and the dancing slowed—and even the wine and ale began to dry up—the only entertainment that remained was to see the bride and groom off to the bridal chamber.

’Twas of little interest to Bernard to see the spindly-legged groom stripped naked and escorted to his bride’s chamber, but he did not decline too strongly and soon found himself within the group of men doing just that.

They made the usual bawdy jests, drank from jugs of ale and attempted to force more down the throat of the already dazed groom as others helped him out of his tunic, undertunic, and chausses.

“Give ’er all ye got,” encouraged one man, slapping the groom on the bare skin of his back.

Another gestured to the groom’s flaccid member, chortling, “Ye might need some help, there, eh, Will? Just call out and I’ll step in your place.”

“Eh, I trow Will will keep the bitch in line,” grated a voice next to Bernard. “Don’t need much more than a raised hand—an’ she’ll be doin’ your bidding as you please.” The man, obviously well into his cups, swayed against Bernard, causing his perpetually-full cup of ale to slosh onto his tunic. “Have a care, sirrah,” he warned, leaning threateningly into Bernard’s face. “Ye’ve spilt on my new tunic!”

Bernard, hardly able to breathe from the stench of ale emanating from the man, chose to ignore the rough drunkard and turned away. Aside of that, he’d recognized the man as Lord Ralf, one of the sons by law of Lord Wyckford, and allowed that the man had probably been celebrating the wedding for far longer and more deeply than he should have.

When Bernard felt a hard shove from behind, however, he whirled, automatically clapping a hand to where his dagger hung. “Aye?” he asked, coming face to face with the drunkard. “Did you wish to speak with me?”

The man’s eyes were nearly at a level of Bernard’s. There was a hard light behind the ale-glaze in them. “I said that ye spilled ale on my tunic, sirrah, and I would expect you to make recompense.”

“’Twas your own clumsiness that caused it, man. Do you not make a mistake you will later come to regret,” Bernard responded easily, but he allowed a hard warning to flare in his eyes. It was probably best not to participate in a scene with one of the family at a wedding celebration, regardless of what a cock-licker the man was.

From the belligerence in the other man’s face, he knew there might have been more of an altercation had not Lord Wyckford announced that the bridal chamber was ready to receive the groom. With a lethal look at Bernard, Ralf pushed none-too-gently away from him to stand beside Will, the groom.

The group of men tottered along the passageway, trading more bawdy comments and suggestions for Will, and Bernard followed their progression. He’d realized somewhere along the way that as sister to the bride, the young woman he’d met in the stables would likely be there at the bedding ceremony.

~*~

The door to the bridal chamber opened, and a flood of men pushed their way in. Joanna stood near the fire, chafing the icy hands of her sister, the bride, who was about to be disrobed.

The scents of men and ale and smoke filled the room, along with that of stale, panting breath and loud exchanges. Joanna felt a familiar wave of anxiety at their closeness, the crowdedness of the chamber, and her sister swayed slightly, clutching at Joanna’s hand in the folds of her gown.

“Shh, ’twill soon be over,” she murmured into Ava’s ear, smoothing a hand over her shoulder, even as she curled the fingers on her other hand into a tight fist. “And when you and Will are alone—”

“Bring forth the bride and groom!” intoned the priest, pushing through the crowd of men.

Waves of bawdy laughter and noises rose and roared, filling the room as the men shoved Will forward. The slim man stumbled but caught himself on the tall spindle of the bed and leered at Ava with the vacant eyes of one who had imbibed overmuch.

Joanna gently pushed her sister forward, and, blocking from her mind the memories of her own wedding night, began to assist her maid Maeve in removing the bride’s clothing. She hoped to make the moment as brief as possible for Ava’s sake, although what would happen in the chamber thereafter mayhap could be worse.

Ava’s jewel-studded girdle jangled to the floor, and Joanna reached to pull the fine overtunic above her head. After handing it to Maeve to fold, she turned to unlace the sides of the bridal gown. As she moved around to the far side of Ava, she glanced for the first time toward the sea of ogling male faces. Her attention fixed on one for the merest instant and her insides froze.

The man from the stable.

Joanna’s heart slipped off its beat, then returned to a faster pulse. Her fingers became clumsy and it took her twice as long to unlace the second side as it had the first. What was he doing here? Dear God, if Ralf were to learn that they’d met, or even spoken…if the big stranger made any sort of gesture of familiarity toward her—

She felt the color drain from her face as her stomach churned with fear.
Mary, Mother of God, please help me.

But mayhap Ralf wasn’t here…mayhaps he lay in his cups somewhere….

She raised her hands to lift the gown over Ava’s head, and felt her own wide sleeves slip back to her shoulders, baring her slim arms. Maeve took the bundle of fabric from her and Joanna turned to the last bit—the light, fine linen chemise that hid very little of the curves and dark areas of Ava’s body. Knowing it was all that much easier if it were quick, she bent to take the hem, lifting it smoothly and easily up and over, leaving Ava beautifully nude in the midst of gaping, gawking, groping men for the merest instant. Maeve was mercifully quick with the fur-lined cloak, throwing it over Ava’s shoulders and masking her nakedness.

Someone pushed Will, who stumbled again, this time into his bride, nearly knocking her over. The noise of hoots and whistles deafened Joanna, once again, bringing her back to the terrifying memory of her own wedding night. Firmly pushing the thoughts away, she returned to her work and drew the blankets back from the bed, then assisted her sister to slip under the coverings as quickly as possible. Now, she could do naught for Ava but pray that ’twould end soon, and that her husband would have a care when they were alone.

Backing away, nearer the fire again, Joanna watched as the priest raised the arms of the groom for all to see his nude body.

“There appears no reason that the groom should be unable to fulfill his marital duties,” intoned the priest, and the room erupted with taunts and whistles as the evidence of Lord Will’s virility swelled and rose to attention.

“Now, to bed with thee!”

Joanna turned to slip out of the room and came face to face with her husband.

“My lord,” she choked. What she had feared was in his eyes—glassiness, but behind it, glinting sharply, lust.

“My tunic has been soiled,” Ralf grated, his hand slipping around to grasp her arm. “You’ll come to assist me in removing it.”

“Aye, my lord,” was all she could say.

Each of his fingers was a separate ridge, biting into the tenderness of her upper arm, and Joanna held back a wince as he propelled her toward the door way.
Mother of God
. She prayed silently—prayed that the man from the stable would not acknowledge her, prayed that Ralf would become distracted from his purpose, prayed that his overindulgence would get the best of him.

One, at least, of her prayers, was to be answered.

As they passed through the doorway, Joanna came briefly face to face with the giant from the stables. His expression was unreadable but his eyes caught and held hers for the barest of instants before she dragged her own gaze away as Harman directed her toward her fate.

Mercifully, the man said naught.

But Joanna could feel the weight of his stare behind her.

II.

Until she’d raised her arms to assist the bride in removing her chemise, the Lady Joanna had entranced Bernard with her shy beauty and graceful movements. He knew of her soft heart just from their moments in the stable. The manner in which she’d treated him when she thought him less than a lord and the care for which she’d shown a mother cat told Bernard all that he needed to know.

In the bridal chamber, he’d stood to the side, sipping, not gulping, the bitter ale that must have come from the dregs of the barrel, watching her, suddenly wanting her…knowing that he must have and protect her. He saw the way candlelight glinted off her rich, honey-gold hair, wanted to touch the creaminess of her half-shadowed skin, and felt the desire to feel her small hands cover his broad chest.

It was a miracle that after so long, and so many women, after so much nagging from his father, that he should find the woman he had to marry this suddenly. And he knew, clearly, that it would be she.

And then, Lady Joanna had raised her arms to help Lady Ava off with her chemise. And Bernard found his attention fixed not on the newly-bare body of the bride, but on the slender, upraised,
bruised
arms of her sister, Joanna.

Black and purple marks patterned the upper portion of her arms, both of them, leaving no doubt as to their origin. Bernard felt the loud, crowded chamber slide away, leaving him cold and stunned that someone—for it had to be
someone
; ’twas no accident, those markings—could have inflicted such pain upon a small, fragile woman.

He’d hoped to talk with her, to find a moment where he could ask her what or who….but ’twas not to be. As soon as Joanna moved to leave the bedside of her frightened sister, she was accosted. Nay,
claimed
.

Ralf. The whoreson.

Bernard could barely control his rage at the realization that this low-bellied snake not only had some claim to Lady Joanna, but that he doubtless had inflicted such bruises upon her person—or if he did not, then he knew who had.

It was all Bernard could do to allow the couple to pass by him at the chamber door, and remain passive. He looked closely at Joanna, catching her eyes—soft blue ones glazed with anxiety—as she passed, trying to send the message that he would stop them if she wished.

The way her gaze flickered away instantly bespoke of her fear, and Bernard forced himself to remain still, tightening his hands into painful fists, knowing that any action on his part would bear more ill toward Joanna.

They left, and Bernard had no choice but to follow the remaining men from the chamber. A heavy sickening settled in his belly as he stomped along the hallway with the other men.

It took only one question to ascertain what he’d inherently known: Lady Joanna was wed to Ralf, Lord of Swerthmoor.

~*~

The next morn, Bernard woke with a head fuzzy from little sleep and too much ale. The last person he wished to see, however, was waiting as he stumbled from his pallet. Bernard was not the last of the men to rise, but near enough to it that his father must call attention to that fact.