My Lady's Pleasure (3 page)

My Lady’s Pleasure: Chapter Two

Somehow, in little more than a day, the main hall changed from the dreariness of siege to the joy of a feast. She didn’t want to study the details too closely, but if Josalyn hadn’t known the lavish gatherings Randmead had hosted in its prime, she’d never imagine her household anything less than splendid in its celebration.

Ulric had certainly made free with the wine. Everyone, from the castle household to the villagers to the tenant farmers, had turned very merry, indeed. Heads would throb in the morning, but tonight, they’d earned some happiness after the long siege.

Ulric sat in the lord’s chair on the dais, looking with keen eyes over everything. True to his word, his men behaved themselves. They mingled with her people, sharing drink and bawdy laughter.

Ulric placed his hand over hers where it sat on the arm of her mother’s chair. “Have I pleased you, my lady?”

Her mind tumbled back to old images. Her father sitting where Ulric now sat. The lord of the keep with his life mate beside him. He’d touched her mother in this exact way so often.
Have I pleased you, my lady?

“It’s a wonderful feast,” she answered.

“Everything here runs smoothly,” he said. “That’s your doing.”

“My duty, no more.”

He took a bit of the sweet pudding from his plate and held it up to her mouth. “Your cooks are very talented.”

“I know. I ate my own pudding.”

He rubbed the sticky morsel against her lips until she had no choice but to take it into her mouth. Heat flared in his eyes for an instant, and then, he gave her a lazy smile. No more than a curl to his lips, something private between them.

“I’ve complimented you,” he said. “A courteous hostess would return the favor.”

“Am I your hostess? I thought you owned everything here. That would make me your leman.”

“Tonight, I choose you as my hostess,” he answered. “The compliment, if you please.”

“Your men haven’t looted the place nor raped anyone,” she said. “I’ll give you that.”

“That was our agreement, not a compliment,” he said. “Don’t you think I look rather regal tonight?”

He did, indeed, impress the eye in the robes he wore. He must have brought them with him, as no man here approached him in stature. The scarlet linen of his tunic created a jewel-like contrast to the gold of his hair, and the embroidery around the collar emphasized the width of his shoulders. He might have been one of his Norse gods personified, come down from Valhalla to make his English subjects appear puny in comparison.

“I have a similar gown in a woman’s size,” he said. “You might like it.”

So, now he offered gifts, as though he could purchase her favor with feminine trappings. He must think her a light-headed female, easily distracted by trinkets. She stiffened her back. “Odd. I hadn’t expected a Viking raider to carry women’s clothes with him.”

“God’s blood, woman, I’m trying to make you happy.” He picked up his chalice and drank deeply of his wine. “Why must you resist?”

“Where did you learn to swear in the English fashion?” she asked.

“Does it matter?” he replied as he stared straight ahead of him, his jaw clenched in displeasure.

“I suppose not.” If anyone in her household had used such language, she’d have schooled them in proper piety. She had no control over this man, though.

“Well enough,” he said. “If conciliation doesn’t work with you, I’ll continue with orders.”

One of his men approached the dais and bent toward Ulric’s ear.

“You may speak freely before Lady Josalyn,” Ulric said.

The man gave her a slight bow. “There’s a minstrel outside. He said he’d entertain for room and board.”

Ulric’s brow went up. “No gold?”

“He said something about other payment,” the man answered.

Ulric glanced at her. “Your doing?”

“I know nothing of minstrels,” she answered.

Ulric nodded. “Bring him in.”

The man scurried to the back of the hall and returned with a stranger. A hush started from where he stood and spread throughout the crowd.

The minstrel wore colorful clothing, deep blue chausses and a doublet of forest green. Wide sleeves tied tight at the wrists gave him an almost jester-like appearance, but his dark good looks and a cunning gleam in his eyes, gave the lie to that impression. No fool, this one, as he walked slowly through the crowd, his lyre on his arm.

All assembled followed his progress as he approached the dais and then bent into a deep bow.

“Your name, troubadour,” Ulric demanded.

The man rose. “Trey, my lord.”

A murmur of feminine interest rippled through the room. Ahs and sighs, and why not? As stunningly golden as Ulric was, this Trey matched the Viking with a dark charm. His black hair gleamed in the flickering light of the torches, and thick lashes adorned his eyes. When he turned them on Josalyn, she fell under a spell of sorts. Lost in their obsidian depths.

“My lady,” he said, pulling her back to reality.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

Trey stroked the strings of his lyre. “Would you like me to play for you?”

She glanced toward Ulric. Curse the man, now he had her looking to him for approval.

“If you wish it,” he said.

She nodded toward Trey, and he gave her a smile that warmed her from the inside.

As the revelers rose to put tables aside to make room for dancing, Josalyn sat, immersed in a strange feeling. Trey’s smile had moved her in a way she hadn’t felt before. No, that wasn’t right. She’d experienced that fluttering in her breast and only the night before. When she’d touched Ulric, when he’d caught her hand and traced his scar with it. When her cheek had grazed his shoulder and she’d had a glimpse of the male part of him–or at least its head poking out of the water–she’d felt shock but, if she was honest with herself, some fascination for the thing. And then, when he’d pulled her around to face him, and her lips had come so close to him, her heart had nearly stopped in her chest. Trey’s smile had had no more than half the effect that Ulric had had, but it was still shockingly powerful. Saints in heaven, she wanted them both.

Impossible. She couldn’t have lust for either of these men. Her whole life, she’d dreamed of a noble suitor who’d approach her as he would a Holy Grail. Höhe Minne, courtly love. Pure devotion only consummated with the blessing of Holy Mother Church.

She’d given up any hope for her reality to match her fantasies. She’d surrendered all that when her parents died and the mantle of stewardship at Randmead fell on her shoulders. Would she now also succumb to baser urges for two unacceptable men, one little more than a savage and the other a singer of bawdy ballads?

Something touched her cheek, startling her out of her reverie. She found herself staring into Ulric’s eyes. He slowly drew the pad of his thumb across her chin as he searched her face for something. The sensation returned, as if she were standing on a cliff and imagining jumping off. Would she fly?

A question hung between them, his first sign of uncertainty. Mentally, she took a step closer to the edge of the cliff.

Nonsense. She pulled away and looked out over the crowd, her heart thumping in her chest.

Trey sat on one of the tables and played his lyre as he sang in a strong baritone. A young girl sat next to him, as close as she could get without climbing into his lap. She followed along in a reedy voice.

The rest of the crowd had formed lines and danced to Trey’s song. They executed their moves perfectly–clap twice, hop, spin, and back to their original places.

The music had cast a spell over all of them, including Josalyn. Even Ulric seemed caught up in it. The glint in his eyes softened, and he tapped his fingers against the tabletop in rhythm with the dance.

Josalyn had seen minstrels perform before, but none had ever held their audience as this one did. No magician charmed as Trey did. He had some power over people.

Snatches of Trey’s song came to her through the haze he’d created around her mind.

“In milady’s chambre d’amour

“My happy cock doth strut….”

Saints above, did he mean that the way it sounded? The crowd took his words at face value. The dance became more frenzied, the physical contact of the pairs more lingering and intimate. Now, a male hand touched a breast here and pelvises met there. As a maid skipped by one of Ulric’s men, he grasped her waist and pulled her onto his lap. Instead of objecting, she clasped his face and kissed him. As their lips and even tongues entwined, his fingers slipped into her bodice.

She shouldn’t watch, and yet the display held her. The young woman’s skin flushed, and her breath grew ragged as her breasts rose and fell. The man shifted her closer so that her rump would press against his cock. He moaned and pressed himself against her again.

He’d be hard and swollen now, like Ulric the night before. The image of the reddened head of his member came back to her, and for some cursed reason, the secret place between her legs grew warm and wet. It throbbed in rhythm with the strumming of Trey’s fingers on the strings of his lyre.

She turned to Ulric and gestured at the couple. “Please. You promised.”

“The girl is willing,” he said. “’Tis not rape.”

“I know, but….”

He stared at her, and the blue of his eyes went dark with hunger. Whatever trance Trey’s music had cast on the others had worked on Ulric, too. He’d be erect under the linen of his tunic. She wouldn’t look at his pelvis, no matter how the temptation bored into her. She’d remain calm until the song ended, and then she’d slip away with some excuse or other.

The pace of Trey’s music picked up, and the dancers became frantic in their movements. Chivaree, the sort of dance meant to whip a new wedded pair into a rush of desire. Ulric’s man moved his hand beneath the young woman’s skirt. Clearly, he toyed with her pryvete. None of the others seemed to notice as her eyes closed and her head fell back against the man’s shoulder.

Josalyn looked away, but the image of a man’s touch against her own queynt wouldn’t disappear. Rubbing, pressing in concert of the rhythm of the dancers’ feet.

“Ah, my love,”
Trey sang.

“Now, take this yard that swells for you,

“Ease it in your depths,

“And let us come together.”

The woman on the Viking’s lap let out a hoarse cry, and her entire body shuddered in his arms. The music ended, and the spell broke.

The dancers stopped, mid-step, and some laughed. Others blushed and lowered their heads with embarrassment.

Trey eased away the woman who’d sung with him and slapped her bottom as she walked away. It was a gesture of conquest. For those last few moments, he’d owned them all, and his smile said he well knew his power.

After a few seconds, Ulrich stood and released a hearty laugh. “You know your skill, minstrel.”

Trey stood and then deeply bowed, a splendid show of false humility. “At your service, my lord.”

Ulric clapped slowly but loudly. Finally, the others joined in, and applause rang through the hall.

Trey neared the dais again and bowed. When he straightened, he smiled at Ulric and Josalyn both, although his gaze lingered on her. “If I’ve pleased you, I’d be happy to stay here and entertain for a while.”

Ulric bent toward her. “Do you want him?”

How ironic that he would use the word want. Her body still thrummed with the energy of Trey’s song. Sinful as the desire might be, she did want him. But, how could she tell the man who claimed to own her that?

“Whatever you decide,” she answered.

“I asked if you wanted him,” he said softly through nearly clenched teeth.

“I do,” she said before the meaning of her words registered. “That is—my lord—I—”

“Enough,” Ulric snapped. “My lady wishes that you stay.”

“As you say, my lord,” Trey said.

“In fact, you may play at our wedding,” Ulric said.

“Our what?” Josalyn started to rise, but Ulric’s hand on her arm held her in her chair. “Whose wedding?”

“Hear you all,” Ulric announced to the throng. “The Lady Josalyn will become my wife as soon as the proper clergy can be found.”

Silence followed that proclamation, and then applause built again, even louder than Trey’s song had received. They approved. Her people wanted her to marry the Viking. The man who had conquered her, conquered them, and stolen all their lands and possessions. How many of their people had died in battle at the hands of these conquerors? More than she wished to contemplate. It was unreal that her people should want her to wed the warlord. Could it be true? Their hearty response claimed it was so.

Ulric smiled at her as if he’d won a major point. In truth, he had. Much as she loathed the thought of this proposal, she couldn’t disappoint this happy crowd.

Marriage. The Viking would take his rights as a husband. He’d made that clear when he’d exposed himself to her the night before. ‘Twas one thing to imagine his kiss, his touch. The invasion of his body into hers. ‘Twas quite another to actually experience them.

Her gaze fell on Trey as if he’d pulled it there. He was smiling again, and the heat had returned to his eyes. Silently, he made her a promise that he’d be with her when she made this strange voyage. That he’d help her through it.

Madness. One couldn’t read that in someone’s expression, especially a stranger. She shook herself free of his spell, and her situation fell over her like a shroud. What could she do? Holy Mother, what could she do?

***

As Anne moved about, putting away Josalyn’s clothes and straightening her bedchamber, Josalyn sneaked out the miniature that she’d painted so many years ago and studied the image of the man she would never meet. With her limited talent, she’d left out some details and exaggerated others, but her imagination perfected the image in her mind’s eye. Her prince. She’d named him Harold. He’d been a hope and a dream when she’d first completed his likeness. Now he was an illusion. Someone other women might have, but not for her.

Anne came up behind her. “Staring at your prince again?”