Laverna Lodge
The Year of Our Lord 1370
In the forty-third year of the reign of Edward III
For all Turbet acted as if he could barely contain his ardor prior to our vows, what with his hot kisses on my hands, as well as cheeky pinches and slaps, when it came to sarding on our wedding night, God’s truth, he was unable.
Upon seeing me naked on the bed, an inviting smile upon my face, my warm and willing queynte on display, his spindle retreated into the gray thatch guarding his loins like a felled tree in a forest. Except a tree is at least firm. His prick was more like a hooked worm before the gaping mouth of a fish—cowering to the point it couldn’t even be swallowed.
Frustrated beyond measure his rod wouldn’t harden, despite his own efforts, he demanded I pleasure him. So, I rose to my knees, crawled across the bed and set to with gusto. After a time, I began to grow both weary and cold—I was unclothed, the covers had slipped from my shoulders. Still nothing happened.
I was like an old person given slops instead of a bone to chew.
Unsettled, he began to hiss—grabbing a fistful of my hair to keep me in place. I was ordered to suck harder, nay, softer, use my teeth, pull and pull with my fingers but gently, nay, more firmly. To spread my legs, close them, bend over, stand up straight. Keen to please, and aware his hand in my hair was beginning to hurt, I complied. He began to sweat, his face growing so very red. I could feel his rage boiling like a kettle. I half expected him to lash out and strike me, which made me both nervous and clumsy.
I accidentally bit him. He leaped back with a sharp cry and struck me hard across the face. I fell backward on the mattress in shock. The imprint of his hand burned my slick flesh. Tears gathered—not from sorrow, but from embarrassment.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” I began to crawl toward him so I might inspect the damage.
He slapped my hands away and pushed me aside. “Get away, doxy,” he shouted and turned his back so he might examine himself in private.
“I really am very sorry, sir.” Repressed laughter made my voice high.
He spun around, eyes blazing. “You think this is funny?” His mouth twisted into a leer as his eyes roved over my body. “It’s no wonder I couldn’t . . . er . . . perform. Look at you! This is your fault.” His hand swept toward me. “When all is said and done, you’re an ugly little bitch.”
He drew his shirt over his body, picked up his tunic, paltock, hose, and boots and, without another word, stormed out of the bedroom.
I fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. My fault? Ugly little bitch? How dare he, the maggot’s cock. Fulk never had problems sarding me. On the contrary, as I’d grown older, we’d enjoyed many a romp between the sheets. How could it be my fault? I did everything and more, but still my husband’s pole would not stand to attention. The fault lay with him, not me.
Ugly little bitch.
Was I? I know my hair was an uncommon color, being more red than brown, and my freckles were like speckles of dark paint splashed across my body, the gap in my teeth pronounced, but Fulk had thought me beautiful and said so often. Many of the merchants and carters in Bath and at the village market admired me as well. And what about Layamon all those years ago?
He’d been keen enough to swive me. Fulk, too . . . But he was no longer here.
My eyes began to burn.
Ugly little bitch . . .
Across the ceiling, shadows thrown by the candles looked like a phantom crowd cheering. I touched my cheek. It was on fire from the blow. Then, I ran my hands over my body. My skin was soft. I’d grown plump under Fulk’s attentions, only to become thin immediately after he died. In the last month or so, Turbet, mayhap to woo me, ensured our table at Bigod Farm was always laden, and so my flesh had begun to fill out again. I touched my breasts. They were large, full, my nipples pink, and, as I pulled upon them, quick to harden. My stomach was nicely rounded and my thighs too. The hair that sat atop my quentye was soft as lambswool and, Fulk used to say, as inviting as a shepherd’s sunset. I smiled, wishing he was here now. The man who found me beautiful. I rolled over onto my stomach, grabbed a pillow and lay upon it, making sure to drag the blankets over me.
After a while, I rubbed my eyes and moved my face only to place it straight on a damp patch.
Tears did no one any good, I thought, crying harder.
I didn’t hear the door open, I only felt the covers rise, and a body slip in next to mine. A pair of arms drew me close.
“Don’t you listen to him, you hear? It’s him who’s ugly.”
I couldn’t answer, words were banked up in my throat. I clung to Alyson and waited for her to say “I told you so.” I cried and cried, and not just about what Turbet had (or hadn’t) done and what he’d said, but because I’d wilfully ignored Alyson’s warnings—not what she said about Fulk’s death and Turbet being a potential murderer. I didn’t believe that for a moment. It was her other concerns I’d dismissed, convincing myself they were simply uttered out of spite or envy.
I also hadn’t listened to her because a part of me wanted to live a more comfortable life, to enjoy the privileges that came with having extra coin, being married to a man of standing in both the village and town. Prove Father Roman and his ilk wrong. Grasp opportunity, as Papa always said. When I began to sense that mayhap Alyson was right and Turbet was not all he appeared to be, I’d deliberately kept myself blind to the truth.
Now it was too late.
Ugly little bitch.
“No matter what happens,” said Alyson softly, “no matter what I say to you or you throw back at me, I want you to know, hen, I’ll always be here for you. We’re in this together, you and me.”
My throat clogged; my eyes swam and the room dissolved. She’d called me hen, our little joke that I, the younger one, was the hen and she the chick. It made my heart swell. I didn’t deserve her.
She began to stroke my hair. “Turbet drank too much tonight, hen. He’ll be sorry in the morning and make it up to you. Just you wait. We all say things we regret at times, as you and I have cause to know.” She chuckled. I cried harder. “Hush, hush. It will be alright.” She squeezed me tight. “If anyone can make it work—and I don’t only mean his prick—”
That raised a short, sharp laugh from me.
“—then it’s you. Look how happy you and Pa were. Who would ever have thought? A young thing like you and my grizzled old father? Mayhap, all Turbet needs is a chance.” She paused. “Another one. And you, with your big heart, your big smile, and let’s not forget your big nugs—” She gave them a squeeze. “You’ll give him that and everything will be fine.”
What was it Geoffrey said? Oh, aye. Everyone deserves a second chance.
Mayhap, even Turbet.
We lay there in silence, interrupted only by my snuffling. Moonbeams sliced through the thick glass, throwing puddles of argent light on the covers. Curled in each other’s arms, we watched them creep across the bed. Outside, an owl hooted and one of the dogs barked, joined by the other soon enough. I wondered what had disturbed them. Had Turbet ventured outside to cool his temper? To think upon his words?
Somehow I doubted it. A man like that didn’t dwell upon such things. To do so would be to admit fault and he was very clear the problem wasn’t his.
I rammed my fists into my eyes. Alyson was right. I was married to Turbet and he to me. If I was to stay married, then I had to make it work—including swiving. We needed to make a child. Otherwise, what was a wife but a whore with a ring on her finger? God knows, I’d love to have a babe. My fingers ran lightly over my belly.
Born under the sign of Venus meant love was my speciality. But Mars was also my patron. For certes, Turbet didn’t stand a chance if I decided to go to battle—and I would. For my marriage, my honor, the hope of a child, and for Alyson.
Did she sense I was thinking about her? Did she know how much it meant that she’d come to me and offered solace?
“Thank you, Alyson. Thank you.” My voice was raspy.
“What for?” she asked sleepily, tightening her arms about me.
“For being here. Caring.”
“Who says I care?” she chuckled. “Nay, this is what sisters do, isn’t it? Look out for each other. Love one another—even when no one else does.” There was a heaviness. “Especially then.”
“Well, I love you, chick,” I said. I meant it. I really did.
“I know.” She kissed me and, moments later, was breathing steadily.
I shut my eyes and, moving so she was curled around my back, tried to sleep. Visions of Turbet’s prick retreating into a forest of gray haunted my dreams as did his ice-cold rebuke followed by his insult, “Ugly little bitch. This is all your fault.”
As it turned out, for once in my life, it really wasn’t.