The Sixth Surrender

She fought him up the two dozen staircase steps without any success, thanks to her gown and his grip, which threatened to separate her shoulder from its socket. Oh Mary, this was not the public acknowledgment of their marriage she’d had in mind.

Her bedchamber shimmered in the light of candles, the fireplace stoked, the covers turned down. He had lied to her! He’d said he wouldn’t . . . No, she remembered, he had merely said “for now.”

He let go of her. “You look like you’ve lost a wager, mouse. I wouldn’t bet on Peyrac. That man has more brawn than brains. The feast is over. This is our proper wedding night.”

She forced her feet to move her backward. If she could reach the strong room . . . Lasalle followed her. “And there is something you possess, my love, that I want more than anything else.”

After enduring the heart-shriveling torture of anticipation, Juliana forced one eye to open. The curtained bed stood empty. Her other eye popped open. Her bedroom was empty. That man had walked right past her and into the strong room! Holding her breath, she inched toward it as if it were a dragon’s lair. There, filled with steaming water, was her tub, and Lasalle next to it, wrestling with his belt. “Sister Eustace, you look disappointed.”

She was about to slam the door and run when Lasalle’s voice stopped her. “I wouldn’t, if we intend to pretend. They all expect us to spend this night together. Don’t disappoint them.”

She could not move, but he could, bending his knees again to bring himself to her eye level. He waved his bandaged hand under her nose. “If you don’t, I am going to get into your tub in my clothes and ruin Vaudreuil’s new gambeson.”

He confused her enough that she made the mistake of looking up into his eyes. Specks of brown swirled in a sea of spruce green. She wrenched her gaze away and shoved her hands inside her sleeves. “You have your squire.”

“Last time I saw Aumary, two of your wenches had him cornered. He wasn’t calling for quarter, so I didn’t think it wise to rescue him.” Lasalle shrugged out of the gambeson and held out his arms to her. Not having much choice, she took hold of the shirtsleeve and tugged it over the bandage. A shard must have cut him. He caught his breath. “Ah, gently now. I didn’t think nuns were so bloodthirsty.”

He laughed. Not at her this time, she assured herself with a quick glance. He waited for her to ease the fabric over his knuckles. “One would think you’ve never undressed a man before, mouse.”

Mortified, she waited for someone to rescue her. No one came. Better to get it over with. He stood patiently until the knots in the ties of his drawers gave, kicked away the pile at his feet, and headed for her tub. She looked anyway.

From distant childhood memories, she had a dim idea of the male anatomy; her more recent memory was of the sick old men brought to Fontevraud’s infirmary to be tended by the brothers and the lay sisters. This one was wearing only that earring and Richard’s cross glistening against short, black swirls of hair on his chest, and even though an exacting life had hewn him to the rudiments, she did not ever recall anyone who exuded so much . . . health. Under the rib cage, his belly curved in.

She dropped her gaze monastically, but in an unfortunate direction. He was dark there, too. Something scalded her, from her hair roots to her toes. Lasalle threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Pretend, Sister!”

In the strong room and still laughing, Lasalle was settling himself into her tub. Juliana paced around her bedchamber, wringing her hands, her heart pounding in her throat. That man had absolutely no manners and not a modicum of modesty. In the words of Saint Augustine . . . For all the words of Saint Augustine, she could not recall a single one, but she could recall that clean line of flank and hip, like parts of some strange, finely wrought, living machine.

Lasalle’s feet protruded over the edge of her tub; water had spilled all over the floor. He held out a rag to her and nodded toward his bandaged hand. “If I get this wet it will bleed again.”

Holy Mother Mary. She quickly crossed herself and dipped the rag in the soap dish, slapped it against his back, and scrubbed as hard as she could, but he did not seem to mind. In places, the dark skin bore signs of old scars, and marks from their more recent encounter. She finished quickly and doused him with a bucket of water, soaking her skirts and taking him by surprise. “God’s mercy, woman, I don’t wish to be drowned!”

She took that for her dismissal and fled to her room. He did not call her back. She paced the floorboards, casting apprehensive glances toward the strong room. A platter underneath a napkin on the table caught her attention. Oh dear. The sisters’ diet did not include meat, ever, and certainly not such portions of piglet roasted with rosemary and apple rings, goose-liver tartlets, or pears in almond pastry. Next to them was a ewer of wine and two cups. With the first sip, Juliana knew it was Hermine’s raisin wine, but after a few more sips the wine did not taste bad at all. Perhaps if she had a couple of bites, her head would not feel so light. . . .

The tone was accusatory. She whirled about and nearly flattened her nose on Richard’s cross. Lasalle was standing there, a sheet haphazardly wrapped around him, smelling of soap, damp linen, and something else.

Praying that he would not notice, Juliana began to back her way around him. His hair was longer than hers and dampness made the ends curl.

Sighing with resignation, Lasalle dropped a piece of well-scraped pork rind on the platter and winced. Despite his efforts, the bandage was soaked. He started to unwind it. “Find something dry to wrap this, will you? Move, Sister.”

The tone and his expression silenced Juliana’s objections. She squeezed herself past him and returned with several strips of linen. He held out his hand to her. Fresh blood oozed from a red line across the palm. Oh Lord. She covered her mouth.

He took the linen from her. “I don’t like it either. Especially mine.” He said it with an odd inflection, and before she could ponder the meaning of it, he said, “Can you at least tie this?”

She saw that his hand was now firmly bandaged, with no sign of blood. Despite her unsteady hands, she tied the ends around his palm. Lasalle handed her his cup. “Here, drink some more of this.”

“I don’t . . . drink.” She blinked to clear her vision. “We drank only watered wine. Once Sister Ignatia and I—” Juliana reached for the wall to steady herself, but it buckled, along with her knees.

They were lying naked together, but she was not protesting. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. Laughing, he pushed her back. She reached up and pulled his mouth down to hers. Her body ached. He leaned into her. Let him kiss me with the kiss of his mouth, let him become a spring inside me, welling up. . . .

Juliana bolted up with a gasp. It was only a dream, praise be, one of those dreams that meld corporeality and hallucinations. Surely that was not what the saintly Abbot Bernard had in mind when he preached on the subject of a kiss, no—surely not that kind of a kiss? Her head pounded, making her nauseous.

Light poured through the open shutters and the sound of voices spiraled up from the bailey. She covered her eyes against the brightness. Her cheeks were wet; her chemise clung to her. The shutters clanked and the room returned to semidarkness.

“That’s what happens when you drink all the wine and devour the feast. Doesn’t the Church teach that wine, gluttony, and venery combine?”

Lasalle stood next to the bed, fully dressed, the whiteness of his shirt contrasting with the severe black of his gambeson. He reached out to touch her face. She shrank away. Her body ached with a dull, persistent throb. In the half-light, Lasalle’s eyes and teeth glinted. “Don’t worry, mouse. I like my women sober, not under the influence of poppy concoctions.”