~ 5 ~

Faulk laughed at a story told by Hettle, the reeve. It had something to do with a plow team and the miller’s wife, but Hettle laughed so much during the telling that the tale had been difficult to follow. The others at the table, being familiar with the occurrence, had also joined in the hilarity, and the laughter had pulled Faulk along. Straightening from a somewhat awkward position where he had been leaning on the table, Faulk bid the men there a good night. He looked around the hall. Most of the families had finally left, and only some single men remained, gathered into congenial groups and getting down to serious drinking at their lord’s expense. Faulk couldn’t blame them. He’d done it often enough himself.

But now, he was the lord. This was his hall and these were his people. Such a miracle was worth the expense of a few casks of ale.

He’d visited every table and spoken to most of the people in attendance. While some of the names and faces melted into one another, he felt he remembered a lot of them. Enough to stop and talk intelligently to many of the fief’s inhabitants. Lealand had always told him that, while all the people on a fief would give their liege lord enough service to avoid being disciplined, a wise lord made each person feel he had a stake in the success of the holding and by doing his job well, he was working for his own betterment. The way to do this was to show a personal interest in each and every one.

Today Faulk had started doing this. He knew loyalty was earned and not coerced. He was very willing to earn it.

He leaned back, stretching muscles still tight from yesterday’s tournament, and checked to see how close it was to twilight. The sky through the high windows had taken on a reddish glow. It would not be long until he could comfortably leave the hall and approach the next task of the day.

Task? Faulk smiled at his own choice of words. He hoped that consummating his marriage would be more a pleasurable than an onerous job. Unfortunately, he was unsure of exactly how the next few hours would play out.

He couldn’t figure out what Anlin was thinking. During the meal, she had reverted to the expressionless and silent person he’d seen in her father’s hall. Perhaps she was just terribly shy and hated to sit on the dais, although he would have guessed her to be more argumentative than retiring. There was no way to tell. But Faulk greatly preferred the prickly woman he had spoken to at their post-tournament meeting to the frozen one who had sat next to him at the wedding meal. He wondered which would meet him when he went up to the lord’s chamber.

Faulk smiled at his own uncertainty. He’d never had trouble with women. To put it simply, women liked him—and he liked them back. Although women had never entered the picture while he resided at the monastery at Jarburgh, once he arrived at Maylea, Lord Lealand’s fief, there was no missing them—or what they had to offer. Privacy was something difficult to attain at a busy keep, and he heard and saw a lot of what went on between men and women long before he was ready to participate.

He’d just moved to the men-at-arms’ barracks prior to his sixteenth birthday when Dort, one of the laundresses, sought him out. Dort, nearly double his age, was broad of face and broad of hips, but possessed an earthiness a young man would find enticing. She smiled at him. She accidentally brushed against his body. She kissed him in ways he’d never imagined. And finally, she showed him the delight that lay between her powerful thighs.

For nearly two months, Faulk had walked around in a state of perpetual arousal. Days were long and tedious, but nights were filled with wonderful adventures in the barn. To this day, Faulk found something compelling about the scent of laundry soup mixed with fresh hay.

His mistake had been in trying to expand his horizons. Sir Landis had come to Maylea with his family from an outlying holding, and one of these family members was his daughter, Clare. Blond, blue-eyed Clare had also smiled at Faulk. It had seemed like a good idea to see where a few kisses might lead, and Clare appeared interested in experimenting.

Lord Lealand had caught them in the stillroom, Faulk’s mouth pressed to Clare’s, his hand groping for hidden treasures. A powerful hand had snatched him away from his prize, and then a granite fist connected with his jaw, bringing him to his knees. It was the only time Lealand ever struck him in anger.

The girl, perhaps grasping the situation more rapidly than Faulk, ran.

Lealand shimmered with anger that seemed inappropriate for what had been taking place. “Sir Landis is my guest,” he said, his voice hoarse. “His daughter is my guest. I’m disgusted that you would seek to dishonor her.”

“I meant no dishonor,” Faulk said, torn between an answering anger and despair at disappointing Lealand.

“A noble’s daughter is not someone to trifled with. She is not some kitchen wench who is happy to share her charms with you.”

“I didn’t see her resisting,” Faulk said, wiping the blood from his lip.

The anger flowed out of Lealand with a sigh. “Faulk, as you age, I fear women of every class will have trouble resisting you. So, you must be the one who knows when to stop—or, as in this case, knows when not to start. What if you’d succeeded in the direction you were going? What if you’d lain with Sir Landis’s daughter? You would have stolen her virginity—the virginity she’s expected to bring as a gift to her husband if she’s to make a good marriage. Would a few minutes of carnal pleasure be worth destroying a young woman’s life?

“No,” Faulk said, suddenly feeling childish. “But I could have married her.”

“Now that’s an impossibility.” Lealand stared at him with a knowing, almost sad, look.

“Why, because I’m a bastard? I’m not good enough for the likes of Sir Landis’s daughter?” Hurt and anger mixed when Faulk thought Lealand would so judge him.

“No, because you have no way of supporting someone like Landis’s daughter. Do you think she’d want to move into the barracks with you?”

“Of course not.” The idea was ridiculous. There were eight men in the barracks, and they slept practically on top of one another.

“Then you have nothing to offer her.”

It was the truth, but it hurt. Faulk could do nothing but nod.

“It’s my hope that someday you’ll marry a noble’s daughter, Faulk, and you’ll then be glad no one took advantage of her in a stillroom or the stable or the barn. You will be the only man to ever lie with her, and I hope you’ll then forsake other women in honor of her. The two of you will form an indivisible unit. It is one of the greatest gifts that Cheelum bestows.

“Until that time comes, you must be very careful whom you bed.” Lealand arched his brow and gave Faulk a slight smile. “You notice that I didn’t say I expected you to avoid rutting with women. I too remember what it was to be young and unmarried. I do not expect the impossible. But I do urge caution. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Lealand turned to go and then swung back to face him. “Has Dort at least taught you to withdraw so you don’t sow bastards from one end of the country to the other?”

Faulk flushed with embarrassment. “How do you know about Dort?”

Lealand laughed. “Oh, Faulk, you are so very young. When a young man gets a decent breadth to his shoulders, when his face sports a fuzz that might someday be a beard, it is always Dort.”

Faulk smiled at the bittersweet memory. Lealand was, as always, right. As Faulk got older, he watched Dort become broader, but other young men still followed her nightly into the barn.

Faulk’s eyes again went to the window. The red in the sky had leached away, leaving a smear of dark blue-gray. It would soon be dark. His attention focused on the stairs to the solar. He hoped that Lealand was also right about what would happen when he married a lord’s daughter. Oh, he knew that Anlin was not in the position to gift him with her virginity, but he hoped the rest was true. He hoped he and Anlin could form the indivisible unit that Lealand and Lady Patrice had managed to form. It was to this end that he’d asked to include the oaths of fidelity in the marriage ceremony. It was his pledge to Anlin and a promise to himself that a true union was possible. To end his perpetual aloneness was very appealing.

He walked to the stairs, ignoring some good-natured comments from the dedicated drinkers. He felt the tightness in his gut that usually preceded a battle. He realized he was nervous, as nervous as an untried boy. It wasn’t just a woman who waited for him in the upper chamber; it was his wife. Wife. An unknown quantity. The eventual mother of his children.

He mounted the stairs, wondering if perhaps Anlin felt the same nervousness. Was she as worried about how this evening would play out as he was? Well, as with the people in the hall, he’d go slowly, making her feel he held her as important. He would start as he meant to continue.

He pushed open the door. Candles gave the room a soft glow. His bride awaited him in this room instead of the bedchamber. She was obviously not nervous. She was asleep.

Anlin sat in one of the carved chairs, her head resting against the back. A soft snore came from her open mouth. She looked totally relaxed; her body slumped with the bonelessness of a sleeping child. Faulk smiled at the innocence of the scene. Anlin looked pretty, younger, the fine lines on her face smoothed away. The white blaze in her hair flashed in the weak light.

Her right arm had slipped from the arm of the chair, her hand hanging down limply. His betrothal ring glittered where it lay on the floor. It was too big. He’d known it when he’d placed it on her finger. The ring had been made for another’s hand, back when Lealand was alive and all things had seemed possible. Faulk bent and retrieved the ring, absently stroking the nightpiper carved on the flat surface of the gold. He’d have the ring sized to Anlin’s finger. Giffard’s Crest was a decent sized town. There was bound to be a goldsmith there.

Then he noticed the empty flagon and glass on the table next to her. Ah, Anlin too was nervous about this night. He’d never before seen her do more than take a sip of wine and couldn’t imagine her emptying an entire flagon.

Now what was he to do with a drunken wife? Carry her to bed as he would the sleeping child that she resembled, he supposed. He squatted down, sliding one arm under her bent knees. With the other, he gathered her to his chest and stood.

She stiffened and jerked back from him so suddenly he nearly lost his hold on her. “What are you doing?”

“I thought you too soundly asleep to wake, so I’m carrying you to bed.”

“I can walk,” she said, squirming against him. She was a slim woman, but the breasts that rubbed his chest so enticingly felt firm and round. He gently lowered her to her feet.

“As you wish,” Faulk said.

She shook off his arm that still encircled her shoulder and marched, straight-backed, to the chamber door. There was no wavering to her steps. Anlin was evidently not the worse for drink. And she was most definitely awake. Awake and walking to their bed. Faulk smiled.

There were no candles alight in the chamber. Faulk started to go back and retrieve one, but the moon, riding amid low clouds, filled the large window with a pale, gray glow. When he’d first seen the windows in the solar and the chamber, Faulk thought they’d have to be considerably reduced in size, such openings impossible to defend. But with moonlight limning the room, he decided he might want to reconsider.

Anlin stood in the middle of the room. She seemed frozen, as if unsure of what to do. It was somehow comforting that she was as unsure as he was. When he walked up to her and touched her shoulder, she jumped.

“Why don’t you take down your hair? It can’t be comfortable to sleep with it pulled back so tightly.” Faulk knew the suggestion was more for his benefit than hers. He wanted to see her with hair falling to her waist and perhaps beyond. He wondered if the white streak flowed to the ends.

“Yes,” she said in a crisp voice as if she were obeying a command. Her hands reached up and removed the combs that held her hair tight against her crown. But when she reached behind to loosen the snood that covered the gathered locks at her neck, she removed the whole thing. Her hair fell to just short of her shoulders.

“What…” he began, reaching for her shorn hair, finding it soft and springy.

“It was kept short in Rennic,” she said. “This is as much as it’s grown.”

“Why short?” he asked, twisting the strands around his fingers, glad that she didn’t pull away.

“It marked my servitude,” she said, voice flat. “But an unintended consequence was that it made it easier to control lice.” A brief, ironic smile ghosted across her lips.

Faulk couldn’t imagine what her life had been like. He knew of no way to make up for whatever had happened to her. He fisted his hand in her hair and pulled her toward him, angling his head down until he claimed her mouth.

Her lips were firm but unmoving. Faulk lightened the pressure and nibbled slightly at her bottom lip. No reaction. No anything. Had the woman never been kissed? He held her face immobile and brushed kisses across her cheeks and eyes. She stood as though frozen. He dropped his kisses to the hollow between her neck and shoulder. There he could feel the erratic beat of her heart. While she showed no reaction, she wasn’t immune to his kisses.

She suddenly pushed back, away from him and walked to the bed. “There is no need for all this,” she said. “There’s no need to sugarcoat mating. It is what it is.” As she spoke, she pulled her tunic and under-tunic up over her head, leaving her nude.

Now it was his turn to stand unmoving in the middle of the floor. With her hair stopping at her shoulders, she looked somehow more naked than any women he’d seen. Her body seemed to glow in the moonlight. Breasts high and firm and surprisingly large. Her waist tapered in abruptly, her stomach nearly concave. Her legs were long and lanky, the curls at the junction of her thighs dark against the paleness of her skin. Faulk realized that he was fully aroused, his erection pressing against his braies.

“I wasn’t trying to sugarcoat anything,” he said, his voice rough.

“Of course you were,” she said. “The whole day has been nothing but icing designed to disguise a bestial act. Sweet Cheelum, I was wrapped up like a holiday package and displayed through the countryside on a mummer’s horse decorated with ribbons and bells. All so I could stand with you before an unctuous priest and have us mysteriously bound for life. After all that, there is no need for slobbering and rubbing. The purpose of all this falderal was so that you could bed me. Well, I’m here and you’re here, so just get on with it.”

“I…” Faulk was at a loss for words. He had done the things she denigrated because he thought they would please her. Or had he done them for himself? He’d seen a merry wedding procession when he was a young boy and thought to reproduce it. The household staff here at White Ford had suggested, no insisted on, the wedding meal, but, again, it fed some fantasy that Faulk had been unknowingly harboring.

She’d warned him, had said that she was no maiden, but still…he’d thought there would be, or could be, something precious and good between them.

“If you’re unable, perhaps it would help if I got on my hands and knees. Some men seem to have found that stimulating.” Her tone was one of detached disinterest, as if she were discussing the weather. Faulk felt some emotion spiral through his body. Anger? Hurt? He didn’t want to analyze it. He only knew that at that moment he hated her and desired her in equal measure.

“I’m quite capable of mounting you,” he said in a stranger’s voice. “But I’m choosing not to do so.”

He turned abruptly and strode out of the bedchamber, slamming the door behind him. He was trembling like a spooked horse. He’d know he would not be the first. But then, he’d never been any woman’s first, so he couldn’t imagine it would make any difference. But this…this aberration, this distortion of something good, was beyond his imagining.

Unconsciously, his hand came up to stroke the nightpiper embroidered on his tunic’s shoulder. Lady Patrice had sewn it for him. Lady Patrice, beloved of Lealand. She’d stood with Lealand until the end as if the two of them formed a multitude. The precise stitches reminded Faulk that such a connection between people was possible in this world.

It seemed, though, that it would not be possible for him. He and Anlin would not be forming an indivisible unit. The barrenness of it all stretched out before him. He went to where the ale flagon sat on the table but found it indeed empty. The gold ring winked at him in the wavering candlelight. He knew now it would never fit.

Then the newly named Sir Faulk of White Ford, the holder of a fine fief, a man who knew the feeling of a sword sliding through muscle and sinew, a knight who had watched the light fade from the eyes of friends and foes alike, a warrior who had seen the man he honored above all others traitorously hanged, this man who had never showed his distress—this Faulk—buried his face in his hands and wept.