Nothing Else Matters (4 page)

“But—”

“So you wil make the most of your beauty tonight. And of your marriage bed,” she added with a sly smile.

Eleanor stood rooted to the floor, staring wildly at her sister. Words would not come, but the realization that tonight the red-furred brute would cover her body with his and she would be a maiden no more sent a shudder through her. She remembered that his hands were very large, his lips firm and forceful.

He stank to high heaven but his body had the lean-muscled strength of a warrior.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, and thought for a moment that she might faint.

Eleanor took a hasty step back as Edythe picked up the ivory comb. Edythe pointed to the wooden chest at the end of the bed. Eleanor sat.

“I—” she began as the Edythe combed out her hair. She couldn’t get out any other words for a while.

Edythe hummed as she worked. Eventual y she said, “Don’t act the martyr so. Your Sir Stian wil be easy enough to deal with.”

Eleanor turned her head sharply, painful y tugging hair out of Edythe’s hands as she croaked, “What? Deal with? How?”

Edythe was smiling a very knowing smile. She put down the comb and sat down beside Eleanor on the chest. She put her arm around her shoulder.

“Don’t you remember anything Lady Constance told us?”

Lady Constance? The very mention of the woman brought a smile to Eleanor’s lips. The name conjured sunny days and spicy warm nights, bright,

sophisticated conversation and wildly amorous tales that educated as they entertained the queen’s court.

“There is no one like Lady Constance,” Eleanor recal ed fondly, though she felt her cheeks grow warm at the memory of one of the lady’s more ribald

tales. “I wonder if she truly did escape from a paynim’s harem wearing nothing but jeweled bel s and a breadbasket?”

Edythe waved Eleanor’s question away. “That matters not right now. What matters are the things she taught us.”

Eleanor blinked. “Things?”

“By al the holy saints, your mind’s rattled.” Edythe sighed in exasperation. “I thought you were the quick wit of the pair of us.”

Eleanor looked at her lap rather than at her sister. Edythe was right, she should be using what little wits God had seen fit to give her. “I feel dul and fearful,”

she admitted. “It gets in the way of thought.”

“Sil y child, you’ve not a thing to fear.”

Eleanor understood Edythe’s confidence—Edythe was not being foisted off on a very large lout. Eleanor gave herself an angry mental shake at the unkind thought. Despite the terror that made her bitter, she knew her sister would not say something she did not mean.

“And why,” Eleanor asked, “do I have nothing to fear?”

“Because of Lady Constance.”

It al seemed self-evident to Edythe so Eleanor made herself think, to remember. After a while she smiled, though she was blushing hotly. She touched her fingertips to her warm cheeks. Edythe was giving her a triumphant smile.

“Oh yes,” Eleanor admitted to her sister, voice cracking somewhat. She cleared her throat. “I see what you mean.”

Edythe nodded. She patted Eleanor’s shoulder. “Al wil be wel ,” she promised. “Believe me. I know.”

Which explained, Eleanor supposed, why Lord Roger spent so much time alone with his lady wife and smiled so much to himself the rest of the time.

* * * * *

Stian had let a servant shave his cheeks and trim his hair. In fact, he’d nearly blistered his skin in a washtub ful of hot water before his father was satisfied he was clean enough to share a meal with his soon-to-be wife.

“Wife,” he grumbled now as he stood in the hal , wearing his best tunic and an ugly expression. “I don’t see why we have to wait for the women. I’m hungry,”

he complained to his cousin and best friend Lars the Dane as they stood together by the hearthfire.

It was often remarked that Stian and Lars looked alike. The Dane was shorter than Stian, compact where Stian was rangy, his hair gold where Stian’s

was red, but they both had blue eyes and fair complexions. They were of an age and closer than brothers, having shared bread, board, battles, many a

cask of wine and women from stripling youth to manhood. Stian could not imagine life without his lively, troublemaking cousin, though Lars frequently

claimed he’d soon be heading home to his father’s lands across the sea.

Lars clamped a hand on Stian’s arm. He held up the goblet ful of Lord Roger’s best wine. “This is a rare treat. The later the meal, the more time we have to sup it.”

The wine was wel watered but it was strong just the same. Stian was on his second goblet, though Dame Beatrice had frowned when the steward had

poured the wine out for him. Wel , the devil could take Dame Beatrice’s worries for his sobriety.

“I think I’l drink the whole barrel before this night’s done,” he told his friend glumly then took a deep drink from the goblet.

Lars spat into the smoking fire, making it hiss and crackle briefly. “Why so dour? She’s a woman. Bed her then go about your business.”

Lars spat into the smoking fire, making it hiss and crackle briefly. “Why so dour? She’s a woman. Bed her then go about your business.”

“Aye,” Stian agreed with Lars’ advice. But he didn’t smile at the thought of bedding the girl. He didn’t know why, for thoughts of rutting general y brought a smile to his face.

“Your groin’s not burning at the thought of the bitch, is it?” Lars asked as Stian took another drink. “What’s she like then?”

“She’s a gray and ugly little mouse,” Stian admitted. “No, a biting rat.” His tongue ached and his chest stung from where she’d marked him. His pride

stung even more. He added bitterly, “While my father has a sleek mare to ride, I’m given a rodent for my bed.”

Lars shrugged unconcernedly. “Fathers are unfair, that’s the way of the world. If a bitch bites, muzzle it.”

“Rat,” Stian corrected.

He wanted to say that Roger wasn’t like most fathers, but today’s events were proof that Lars was right. It hurt to know that his father would be so unkind.

She’s an ugly little mousy rat
, he thought to himself as he took another drink. What had he done to deserve such a wife?

It didn’t help that his humiliation was going to be public. Word had spread quickly that Lord Roger was home with a new wife and Stian was to marry.

Harelby’s great hal was crowded close to its smoke-draped rafters with liegemen and neighbors come to gawk and gossip and judge as they celebrated

the family’s good fortune. Deep in his soul Stian was a shy and private person. He hated living his life in public, though he knew he certainly wasn’t fit for a cloister.

Soon his father’s beautiful wife would be coming down the stair from upper floor. Her mousy little sister would trail in her wake and al eyes would turn to the pair of them. There would be cal s of congratulations and envious looks for Lord Roger. And for him there would be sympathy and snickers and jests that would make him want to draw his sword. Oh he could see it clearly before it even happened. He’d be mocked, but his father would scowl and shake

his head and tel him to hold his temper. There’d be more laughter at his expense then.

And it would al be the mouse’s fault.

He hated her. And he couldn’t even remember her name.

There was a stirring and murmuring in the crowd around him. Lars turned from the fire, so did the squires who’d come to stand beside them. Stian came

out of his angry reverie as his father stepped to the foot of the stair. Roger, dressed in a finely embroidered surcote, had a bright smile on his face. Stian would have preferred not to look but his gaze was drawn to the women as they appeared around the turn of the steps.

He didn’t recognize the girl who walked ahead of his father’s wife. Her shining, unbound hair was black as night, it framed her face and fel straight and thick to below her narrow waist. She was smal , delicately made, dressed in black, embroidered in thick bands of silver needlework. A hint of a garnet red underdress showed above the deeply cut neck of the black dress. It wasn’t the red underdress Stian noticed so much as the outline of the girl’s rounded bosom and the neat line of col arbone the color showed off. Her chin was smal and pointed, her eyes large and dark. Her mouth—

He’d kissed that mouth, hadn’t he? And not even noticed how ful and rich and ripe it was. What had happened to his mouse?

He stood rooted in place, unable to turn his gaze from her, feeling more the fool now than he had a moment ago.

People were turning his way, offering hearty congratulations, pushing him toward his bride. Al he could manage as he walked stiffly forward was to bare his teeth in a semblance of a smile. Al he could think was that his father had played an elaborate joke on him, and that the girl, the attractive, graceful, poised foreign girl, had been a part of the hoax al along.

His hands twitched into fists at his sides. His father was practical y immune from his anger so he merely gave the man a curt nod in passing. His grimace turned into a real smile, a feral one, as he came up to the tiny woman who was to be his bride.

Eleanor did not like the look in her betrothed’s eyes. She wanted to turn and run but pride, and the fact that Edythe was right behind her, kept her from bolting back up the narrow stairs. His eyes ful of hot anger were blue. When they’d met before, she’d noticed only that they were bloodshot.

As he came to loom over her she backed up a step, for he was very tal and hard to look at from her normal height. His hair was at least combed and his hard-muscled chest was decently covered. He seemed clean—at least he didn’t smel of pig. There was wine on his breath but that was normal enough.

He reached out his hand toward her. It was large and cal used. His size and the menace in his movements frightened her, but since she could not run, she lifted her chin and forced herself to look into his eyes. She could only hope that her trembling wasn’t too evident as he took her hand in his and tugged her forward. She stumbled on the last step and lost her balance. She fel hard onto Sir Stian’s massive, immovable chest. His arms came around her and the next thing she knew he was holding her tightly against him. She was aware of the heat of his body through al the layers of clothing between them. Their gazes locked, and for the first time in her life she knew what it was to feel like prey.

She was the only one who heard the low sound that rumbled from his throat, for the sound was masked by a roomful of ribald laughter. Eleanor got so lost in the fierce aura of the man she forgot to breathe until Lord Roger stepped up to his son and broke the spel .

“Wait for the wedding, you two,” she heard Lord Roger say.

Stian’s soul twisted as the laughter rang in his ears. His face blazed with embarrassment and he cursed the fair skin that showed every emotion. He

forced himself to look at his father, to see his confident smile and the teasing turn of his head. He envied the man his self-assurance more than he did his lovely wife. The knowledge that he could never be like his father rankled more than the laughter and burned away the hard need that had sprung up when girl’s body had been pressed tightly to his.

He loosed his hold and the girl slipped out of his grasp. She seemed eager to escape his touch. He stepped aside with a grim nod, letting his father take both women by the hand.

They stood on either side of the lord of Harelby, fair and dark, dressed in court finery, their smal , soft hands resting in Lord Roger’s. Lady Edythe looked demure and gentle, content to bask in the admiration of those around her. Stian’s bride’s features were stil and proud, only smal spots of color on each cheek betraying any agitation she might be feeling.

Stian fol owed in Roger’s wake as he escorted the ladies to the high table. His gaze raked the girl’s swaying hips as she walked ahead of him.

“That is the finest rump I’ve ever seen,” Lars confided, his lips close to Stian’s ear as they reached the dais. Stian turned on his cousin, only to have his anger dashed as Lars added, “And hair gold as ripe barley. Those braids are as thick as my fists.” Lars elbowed him in the ribs. “You’ve been cheated, my friend.”

Stian ignored his cousin’s comments about Lady Edythe. He might not be reconciled to having lost the more beautiful sister, but his attention was more closely occupied with ways to deal with the wife he had.

Eleanor sat on the hard bench next to Sir Stian and tried very hard to recal some of the things Lady Constance had said about men. Sir Stian sat stiffly beside her, his eyes facing forward, one hand wrapped around the goblet they were supposed to share. Eleanor didn’t know what could be so fascinating

in the hal to hold his attention so closely.

Perhaps he just didn’t want to look at her. Somehow, the notion that the brute was uninterested in her stung her already sensitive emotions.
Well, why
should she want him to look at her?
she thought, trying to hide her fear for the future in pride. She reminded herself as sternly as she could, that marriage had nothing to do with emotional entanglements. She would be foolish to think otherwise—or that even Sir Stian, the lout of Harelby, would be interested in dal iance with her.

When she looked down from her seat at the high table, she saw nothing more than three trestle tables ful of noisy strangers grouped around the smoky

fire with dogs and servants in about equal numbers moving among them. Two tal candles graced the high table, but otherwise the place was dark but for the fire and a few rush lights around the wal s. There wasn’t a jongleur or troubadour or minstrel or jester in sight. She and Edythe had dressed for a feast, one in black, the other in white. The contrast would have been remarked upon and complimented in Poitiers. Here, she felt overdressed and out of place with Lord Roger’s guests, who were dressed only a little better than the peasants in their fields.

Or perhaps the people crowded together at the trestles were the peasants in out of the fields. She had no idea of what the backward society of this land was like. She decided that she had best start finding out. This was her land now and she was ever curious to know what was going on around her.