The Bridegroom

The Bridegroom

by

Darby York

Copyright © 2011, Darby York

Cover art design by Stella Price

Digital ISBN: 9781935817567

Published by Turquoise Morning Press for
Smashwords

Turquoise Morning, LLC

www.turquoisemorningpress.com

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Louisville, KY 40253-0958

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The Bridegroom

Medieval life is hard for everyone,
especially for noble women forced to marry their enemies. Yet even
then women longed for love and fulfillment. Can a reluctant bride
find true happiness in an arranged marriage?

The Bridegroom

Darby York

Haworth Castle

My Lady’s Solar

I shove my knuckles against my mouth, stifling a
gasp.

Beneath me in the great hall, brawny serving boys
place a large wooden tub before the hearth. Two more men carrying
buckets of steaming water empty them into the tub and place one
bucket beside to the fire, withdrawing.

Another serving man sprinkles flakes of
sweet woodruff into the tub and the pleasant vanilla-like aroma
waifs to my nostrils high above. My betrothed divests his clothing.
Firelight provides scant illumination, but ‘tis enough for me to
witness him step over the edge of the tub and sink into the water.
He takes up soap and linen rag and washes himself.

“Mayhap your wife’s hand will help you on
the morrow,” the serving man says with a wicked chuckle.

“Be gone, knave!” He waves his soapy hand,
dismissing the man, but seems not to begrudge the remark.

As he washes himself, he broods, his black eyebrows
furrowing over even blacker eyes. His hair is long, not as custom,
flowing down his back as a maiden’s. Minutes later he stands, water
sloshing down his long limbs. Without a servant, he attends to
himself, lifting the bucket of water. Slowly he splashes the liquid
over his body, letting it rinse the soap from the hairs on his
chest and the muscles of his thighs.

His penis stands proudly, only tempered slightly by
the cooling water. He throws his head back and stares up at the
stone wall.

I jump back from the squint, a peephole concealed by
the war shield hanging near the fireplace below. Had he seen me
spying on him? Does he know I am watching him bathe?

My face aflame, I turn from the secret squint as heat
races up and down my body. Fanning my cheeks with my hand, I slowly
cross the solar. The flagstones, covered with Castilian carpet, are
cold beneath my bare feet.

After compline, my maid is at rest, and now snores
softly on a pallet at the foot of the tall, canopied bed. I avoid
her and stop at the side of the down-filled mattress piled high
with colorful quilts and warm furs.

Tomorrow night he will share this bed with me.

Sir Alan Hawkwood—esquire of the king’s household and
knight, my betrothed, the man who calls me sweetheart and kisses me
as I have never before been kissed—is my family’s enemy.

I stare at the lord’s bed, aptly aware of its import.
Heirs of Haworth were conceived on yon bed. For centuries, children
carrying the lord’s name came into being there. It cannot be
helped, my fate, but I need not like it. I need not succumb
willingly.

Renewed by my resolve, I strip off my shift, snuff
out a lone, tallow candle, and pushing back the soft fur coverlets,
crawl into the high bed. Quietly, I let down the linen hangings,
muting the snores of my maid.

After seeing what I have seen tonight, that personal
place between my thighs begins to soften. Slowly. As if becoming a
warm pool, opening and welcoming.

I have seen men before. Heavens, I have been raised
with twin brothers. I have watched curs coupling in the bailey. I
know what is expected of me.

Yet I shut my eyes, suddenly dizzy. I have not seen
before such magnificence as I secretly witnessed tonight, looking
down on that proud stallion that is to be my husband.

Has he cast a spell on me? Standing—all of him—naked
as a Celtic god? Why else did I ache in the place only he has
stirred? Why else have memories of that kiss in the garden
tormented me, scorching my cheeks and weakening my limbs?

Lord, help me on the morrow.

I am adorned in my wedding finery—a blue gown made
of silk from Sicily, cut full and long, hanging in folds, and a
surcoat in a deeper shade of blue, made of baldekin and decorated
with images of hounds and harts embroidered into the fabric with
gold thread. The skirt of this outer garment is so long and
generous that it covers my kid leather shoes and forms a small
train when I walk. My hair is unconstrained, flowing in soft, dark
shining waves around my face and down my back to my knees.

When my stomach complains loudly I wonder if others
hear. I glance at those standing near and place a hand against the
folds of my surcoat, as if that gesture will ease my hunger pangs.
I have not broken my fast. Now, with heat suffusing my face, I feel
lightheaded.

Servants have prepared the broad open space of the
upper-story hall for the wedding. Rough timber floors have been
swept clean, strewn with fresh rushes and sprinkled with dried
herbs—spicy basil, sweet-smelling balm and lavender, and refreshing
hyssop. Tallow candles impaled on iron candlesticks flicker,
casting splotches of stark light that fail to brighten the
cavernous hall or alleviate the sudden chill in the October air. I
sidle nearer to the roaring fire.

“He comes, my lady,” my maid whispers.

My breathing falters. At the far end of the hall, my
bridegroom halts, hard-pressed by a crush of castle folks hailing
his arrival.

Watching him from under my lashes, I see the black
knight at ease with the servants and the lesser tenants, who have
been summoned to the castle for the event. His laughter sounds
effortless and genuine. How dare he win over my people so
readily?

As if he hears my thoughts, his gaze finds mine,
focusing on me like a raptor fixed on its doomed prey. I suck in a
breath. His black eyes cut into me like talons. That dark stare
penetrates my inner soul, almost as if he sees my hate. We are
enemies. Without mother or father, I must do as the king
commands.

My bridegroom breaks away from the crowd and, with
the sweep of his black cloak, closes the distance between us in
long strides. Everyone in the hall pauses to watch. His footsteps
echo in the expectant silence.

He stops just inches from me, dressed from head to
foot in black with no ornamentation except for the sapphire broach
clasping his cloak together across his broad shoulders.

‘Tis as if we are alone in the midst of all the
wedding guests and servants.

My heart racing, I pretend to be shy. I can but
glance at him, hastily, and then lower my gaze, as any demur
maid.

“Ah, sweetheart, you are lovely,” he says so softly
that only I hear.

My head jerks up. “I am not your sweetheart!”

He assesses me, silently, his face unmoving. What is
he thinking? Pinpricks of tension hold me erect. I lift my chin and
glare back at him.

“I warn you, as well.” His words, when they come,
are a quiet hiss between his teeth and meant for just me. “You will
act the part of my wife, if only for the sake of your good people
here.” He sweeps an impatient hand, indicating the assembled
crowd.

I draw a sharp breath. His threat is not idle. I see
it in his resolute stance and in his eyes, those black, raven’s
eyes.

“I will do my duty, sir, for I know my obligation,”
I say, letting him see by my own icy gaze that having his way with
me will not be easy.

“The priest awaits.” He takes my right hand gently
in his. “Come, let us both do our duties.”

Before the sixth hour, the ceremony begins inside
the tiny chapel. The clergyman announces the terms of my dower and
the dowry. I pay scant attention, not caring what is said nor
promised. I concentrate solely on the way my bridegroom’s massive
grip swallows my hand.

His fingers are long and tapered, strong and tanned
from days in the sun. Still, I feel no safety with my small hand in
his. Conversely, I feel faint, my face hot and flushed. ‘Tis as if
smoldering embers somehow extend from his fingertips, shooting up
my arm and down my body, and bursting into flame somewhere near the
core of me being. That place where last night I’d yearned for
him—nay, lusted for him—the flower of my maidenhead.

We stand side-by-side, facing the priest, who
crosses himself and glances pointedly at me. I stare up at him as
he begins slowly, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together in the
sight of God to join together this Man and this Woman in holy
Matrimony.”

Jolted by the gravity of the words, I fight hard to
attend to the priest’s pronouncements. The weight of my fate nearly
buckles my knees.

I glance once more at the unyielding countenance of
the black knight who stands straight and motionless beside me. He
already holds himself like a lord. His loose hair, longer than
fashion dictates, bespeaks his disregard for convention.

Once again, I temper fear with determination, and
draw a breath, turning back to the priest and carefully repeating
the vows when asked. Yet I cannot shake the deeper dread that
settles in my stomach when I think of the coming night and what I
must do to prove my virginity is not easily taken—even by my
bridegroom.

****

With light waning, I retreat with my maid
upstairs to prepare for bed. As I sit brushing my hair, a sudden
commotion erupts on the stairs. I glance up at my maid, whose face
mirrors my perplexity.

Without comment, the maid strides to the door
and swings it open. “Who goes there?”

“Water for the lord’s bath.”

I jump to my feet, toppling a small stool. I
hug my arms to my body, a niggling fear prickling the back of my
neck.
Your wife’s hand will help you on the morrow.

Serving boys burst into the solar, carrying a
large wooden tub and several buckets of steaming water. They set
their burdens near the hearth and wait for instruction.

I know when he enters the room. His presence
fills the dark solar with a spark that electrifies my senses. I
glance up to see him watching me with shuttered eyes, assessing me
from afar as a falcon scouts its prey.

“Pour the water into the tub,” he commands.
“Leave one bucket by the fire.” The boys spring to do as they are
bid. “Now get out! Even you,” he says to the maid.

“I have not finished with her,” I say,
glaring at him in defiance. “My hair needs tending.”

“I will tend it.” He shuts and bolts the
door. Then he comes toward me. “And you will tend me.”

Dread fills me. I might as well have been
naked for the cover my thin chemise gives me.

“Nay!” I defy him. “Tend to your own needs.
Bride I may to be, but I am neither willing, nor eager.”

I turn away. Hearing him cross the room, I am
unprepared for the way he grabs the fleshy part of my upper arm and
jerks me around. Anger burns in his eyes and something more.

His gaze leaves my face to scorch my body,
traveling down to my bare toes. “I am your husband. Your chaste
treasure belongs to me, and I will not abide your willfulness.”

I glance down. My flesh paled white where his
fingers bite into my arm. “And may be your wife, yet I will not
give myself to you.”

He throws back his head in laughter. “Well
met! I enjoy a challenge.”

Dropping his hand, leaving me arm suddenly
bereft of warmth, he turns from me to undress. “I will not entreat
you, but you will yield.”

His threat frightens me. I stare at his back,
watching him strip off his tunic and braes. Soon he stands stark
naked before me, the taut shape of his buttocks testifying to years
in the saddle.

I swallow. Fascinated by the curve of his
back and his well-muscled shoulders and thighs, I fight the low,
insidious lust inching its way to where I will soon lose my
maidenhead.

He faces me, and I can not help but gape at
his erect lance ready to do battle. Grinning like a cocky page, he
steps forward and brushes a hand over the top of my head and down
the side of my face to hold my cheek.

“I will not force you,” he murmurs, his black
eyes growing even darker. “In faith, I have another precious bauble
to give you once I give you this one.”