Chapter 13
Stephen rolled the Tali dice, balancing the board on the bed. The sun had set two hours ago, and he and Binnie were playing games in Nicole’s chamber.
Binnie scanned the dice. “Twelve. I win.” He collected the stakes, a handful of honey drops. “Want to play another game?”
Stephen laughed. The boy was charming and healing quickly, but visions of his bride kept intruding, smooth warm curves and soft blonde hair spilling on his chest. “You just won four in a row. You’re too lucky, Bin, and it’s late.” Stephen removed the board from the bed and mussed Binnie’s hair. “My mother says you can go outside tomorrow.” He lowered himself to meet Binnie’s gaze. “I shall convince Nicole to let you come to the lists. You can watch Hingit dance again.”
Binnie grinned.
Stephen opened the door, being sure to turn so Binnie could see him speak. “I bid you good night.”
Stephen slipped into his chamber. Nicole sat by the fireplace, her long golden hair falling over the cover of a well-worn book.
“What are you reading?”
Nicole closed it, too quickly, and placed it on her lap. “Just passing the time.”
He walked to her, looked over her shoulder. “What is it?”
“A family book.”
“Can I see?” Stephen asked.
She did not respond.
“Never you mind.” He bent to kiss her. “I will not pry.”
“No. I do not think you would.” She paused. “It’s my secret book.”
“You don’t have to show me.”
“But I want to. It’s about ... the Coin Forest legend.”
“Oh, that. Someone wrote a book about it?”
She raised her pretty chin, revealing the cream-smooth skin of her slender neck. “Not just anyone. My ancestors wrote this.”
He accepted the book, surprised at the weight of it. It was, after all, just a legend, though well known. Ancient history. Over a thousand years ago a small band of Roman soldiers were cut off from their troops by Picts. The soldiers carried a fortune in Roman coins, salary for the Legions. They fled to the forest but when capture grew inevitable, the soldiers buried their coins. The one surviving soldier could never retrace his steps to find them.
“They must have been inspired by the coins in the bear scat,” Stephen said. The legend had almost died until eighty years ago when two Roman coins were found in bear scat at the edge of the forest at the property line between Coin Forest and Faierfield.
“Every titled Miles since then has added a chapter,” Nicole said.
He accepted the book. Respecting the age of it, Stephen flipped through the pages carefully. “Poems. I like this one about treasure.”
“My grandfather wrote that one. He and his father translated old notes from the Salisbury Cathedral and Shaftesbury Abbey, recorded accounts of the loss. Each poem tells of a different story or theory of what happened to the coins.”
“Even maps.” Stephen peered at the crude sketches. “They have been trying to find those coins for centuries.” He laughed softly, then caught himself. “Forgive me. Not to say that your descendants were foolish.”
“Emilyne thinks they were,” Nicole said. “Poets, writing of pipe dreams,” she says. “But then, wealth is common to her; she could never imagine dreams of fortune.”
“When I was a boy, my father would ride with us in the forest and he loved telling the legend.” He took her hand. “It makes for good fireside stories, but if there were a treasure that large, it would have been found some time over a thousand years.”
Nicole took the book and slipped it back into the cabinet. “It makes interesting reading.”
“I admit, I fancied discovering it,” Stephen said, “and rolling in a river of coins.”
“Was I there with you, in your dreams?” She looked over her shoulder at him, her face lit with a girl’s charm, a shy flirtation he had never seen from her. His heart swelled in his chest in a most satisfying manner.
He circled her in his arms, kissing the back of her neck, pulling her against him. “When I was a boy I dreamed of coins.” The firmness of her bottom rubbing against him brought a prompt reaction and he bit the tender flesh at her shoulder. “I would rather explore the treasure I have right here.”
* * *
Hours later, the blast of a sentry horn cut through the night, waking Stephen. He slipped from Nicole’s side and grabbed clothes from the garderobe.
“What is it?” Nicole rose, rubbing sleep from her eyes, reaching for the candle. It had burned down several inches. Boneless from lovemaking, they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms and had left the candle burning.
“At this hour, it can only be bad news.” Stephen dressed quickly, the spent fire offering just enough light to find his shoes.
More distant horns blew in response.
Stephen reached the bailey, where torches had been lit and placed in sconces. The dying fire had been jolted with pitch and dry wood thrown in to light the bailey. Guards manned the turrets and Daniel and his garrison of knights gathered at the stable. Their squires hurried with saddles and armor and the knights mounted, preparing to greet the party if friendly or vanquish it if hostile.
Tension crackled as loudly as the fire. The stable master and his helpers filled buckets of water, prepared to quench flames should the stables be attacked.
Stephen peered past the drawbridge, down the hill, into the fields and edge of the village. The three-quarter moon provided light sufficient to make out a large party with mounted knights, wagons, and a couple dozen others on horses and ponies.
Keenly aware of his lack of armor, Stephen positioned his dagger and performed a quick roll call of the Faierfield knights. Daniel and the powerful Will would offer a strong defense, and Harry was on duty this night, as well. During their work in the lists he had seen others gain strength and skill.
Horns sounded from the village entrance, the current safeguard message of six notes. Two long notes followed, meaning whoever approached was considered safe.
Stephen breathed more easily, but he knew too well the perils of night travel and the late hour spoke of urgency. That knowledge kept his muscles taught. Chains clanked, signaling the lowering of the drawbridge.
Others hurried into the bailey, Charles Storm, the steward; the cook and kitchen staff, routed from their bed mats in the great hall. Chamber maids followed, and Ulger and Emilyne appeared.
Nicole threaded through the crowd to him, still tucking tendrils of blonde hair under her head dress. Her lips were full, bruised from his kisses.
Two dozen armored knights arrived, banners hoisted, three lions passant guardant.
“It’s the king,” Stephen said.
“Your mother’s with Binnie in my chamber,” Nicole said. “Is this Ulgers doing? Is it about Binnie?”
“No. The party is too large.” Fine hairs tingled at the back of Stephen’s neck. Beneath him, the rich soil of his beloved England strained from the weight of inevitable war. The failed council at Coventry in June, the growing aggression of Yorkist forces. Stephen took Nicole’s hand, gave it a squeeze of reassurance he didn’t feel.
Ulger and Emilyne swung left of Stephen and Nicole and walked in front of them, the better to be first to greet the royal entourage.
Nicole tugged at his arm. “We should be alongside my mother and Ulger to greet the king.”
“Were this a social call, true.” Stephen nodded toward Ulger, who scrambled toward the queen like a foxhound puppy drooling all over its leash. “I think we should give Ulger free rein with which to snare himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“He loves the sound of his own voice such that he cannot stop the words. It should prove interesting.”
The knights crossed the drawbridge and entered the bailey. Their armor shone in the hot firelight, their faces stubbled with neglect, eyes tired, bodies flagging in the saddle with fatigue.
Their horses stood, flesh shimmering, sides heaving from exertion. They had been run hard.
The banners fluttered softly in the fire’s heat, three lions passant guardant.
They stood, prepared to greet the king.
Like many of his countrymen, Stephen waited with a sense of awe and worry, looking for the king. Having succeeded to the throne at just eight months old, Henry had never grown into it. He neglected law enforcement and military strategies. The resulting chaos caused divided loyalties that drove the Yorkist rebellion. Now 38 years aged, Henry was a delicate, elegant king, a man of peace, not war, but always he was their king.
The last time Stephen had seen him was at a distance during a brief visit at court years ago.
The knights parted and a horse rode forward.
It was not King Henry.
A woman rode a magnificent palfrey. The saddle and housing were draped with a richly embroidered footcloth that hung near to the ground.
Atop the royal steed she regarded everyone in the bailey, her eyes assessing—wide, generous eyes, unplucked eyebrows of perfect taper, a naturally high forehead, a high-bridged, regal nose and a small, delicate mouth. Dainty and defined, her chin ended her face rather abruptly, the only flaw in a startlingly handsome face. A gold headpiece, ornate with swirls, framed her skin, a shade or two darker than the typical English hue. The stain of her French blood, likely, but her flawless posture bespoke position. She wore a ruby, part of the gemstone Henry received at his Paris coronation, divided to make the queen’s wedding ring. Unlike her husband, Margaret had proven herself capable. Brave. Courageous. She understood power.
The Queen. Margaret of Anjou.
Ulger stood, transfixed.
Stephen and Nicole bowed.
Ulger, hearing their movement, came out of his spell and hastily bowed.
Daniel, his knights, all in the bailey bowed.
The herald made his announcements. The queen had arrived alone; the king was ill and resting at an unnamed location.
Given the king’s increasing bouts of illness, this was not a surprise. That Margaret would lead a midnight ride so far from London or Coventry, however, was alarming.
Margaret greeted Ulger and Lady Emilyne.
“Allow us to tend to your horses, your Grace,” Ulger said. “And I am at your service, no matter the time or need, of this you can be certain, and I—”
“You must be travel wearied,” Emilyne interrupted. “Prithee make free of our hall and our chambers.”
A man cloaked in red and gold livery slipped between Ulger and the queen, helping her to dismount. “Ale, wine, a simple pottage if you please. We will but refresh and be on our way.”
On their way? Stephen and Nicole turned to each other. The royals were just passing by, in the middle of the night?
Charles Storm hurried from group to group, shouting orders to clear the great hall, bank the fires and get all cooks and maids to the kitchen.
Having failed to displace the queen’s minister, Ulger fell back with Emilyne and walked with her knights to the solar.
In the solar, Margaret removed her cloak and took Walter’s chair. Emilyne made fleeting introductions with no titles, “This is my daughter, Nicole, and her husband, Stephen Ellingham.”
“Lord Tabor’s son, I am well aware.” The queen uttered the words with purpose, the pointedness of her gaze and the artfully raised brow stinging Stephen.
“Your Grace.” Stephen risked an unfeigned smile. He respected her and had naught to hide.
Emilyne and Ulger settled close to Margaret.
Margaret graciously accepted Emilyne’s pleasantries and lavish welcomes.
“We are blessed and honored by your presence,” Ulger’s words poured like sweet wine into the room, “and I only wait to learn how I…” He paused, making a deliberate show of taking Emilyne’s hand into the crook of his arm, “How we might serve you, your grace.”
Margaret’s gaze dropped to their entwined hands.
Stephen turned, met Nicole’s wide-eyed gaze.
The queen said nothing of this overt display or what significance it might have. “As you can imagine at this hour, this is not a social call. The Duke of York continues to gather forces, and the Earl of Salisbury marches to Ludlow as we speak.”
Ulger cleared his throat. “You have my loyalty, your grace. Before you leave, however, I must ask for your help in protecting my late brother’s holdings.”
“I’m not here to discuss domestic issues,” Margaret interrupted, her tone crisp. “You must respect the dangerous shadows cast upon the throne. For years we have suffered York and his conspiracies. Now we must act.”
“I am eager to serve you, your grace. If we could but clear up this small title issue all will be ready to—”
Margaret gave a pointed look to Ulger. “Mind you your vow last month in the Midlands...”
Ulger glanced quickly at Stephen, then scratched his nose and returned his attention to the queen.
“...when my son, the prince, gave you the silver swan?” the queen prompted. “You seemed pleased at that time.”
“Midlands? Last month?” Nicole whispered. “But he was in France!”
Stephen nodded, as surprised by this as she. Ulger had specifically mentioned he had rushed from France when Walter died, and had said naught of travel to the Midlands, over a hundred miles north. From the look on Emilyne’s face, this was a slice of new information for her, as well.
“The prince is a beautiful young boy, bright and capable,” Ulger said. “He will be our next king, I vow. You need never question my loyalty, or that of Lady Emilyne, from the noble Marmyl line, or that of my young niece here, Nicole. I will give my life to defend my king and Prince Edward. Unlike those who may secretly support the Duke of York, and certain among us,” Ulger gave a pointed look to Stephen, “who still cling to the Duke of Gloucester’s camp that has always opposed you.”
Stephen’s breath left him in a jolt. The stinking dog was trying to link Tabor’s family to York by lumping him with Gloucester, the queen’s old enemy.
“And who among us might that be?” Stephen asked. “I never knew Gloucester—never met him.”
“But your father did,” Ulger countered.
“Think, Ulger. ‘Tis hard to give political support to a memory,” Stephen said. “Gloucester’s been dead for a dozen years. He.—”
“Stop.” Margaret’s fine eyebrows wrinkled in annoyance. “I have been riding through the night and am exhausted. I am in no mood to suffer trivialities. If what is past is truly past,” she shot a look to Stephen, “there will be no questions of loyalty this day.”
She stood, showing no sign of fatigue in her regal countenance. “The swan my son gave you, Ulger, was a gift of affection. I come to you—to all of you this eve—with a swan of honor, an emblem of your love for England, your loyalty to the Lancastrian line. To the red rose.”
She produced from her purse a handful of small pins, swans made of pewter. “Our enemy, Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury, is marching south to join forces with the main Yorkist army. If he is successful, their forces will number over six thousand.” She paused. “For the love of God and your king, don this pin. Let it protect you as we vanquish the Yorkist forces set to destroy us. May it inspire you to stop Lord Salisbury before he reaches Ludlow Castle and bring him to justice ere this moon again changes.”
Word had traveled through every shire of the strength of this woman’s will, her raw courage and recklessness, her intent to fight to the death to preserve her husband’s throne. This all shone now in the set of her jaw, in the dark purpose in her eyes.
A cold chill settled in the solar, and a breathless quiet sobered all in the room.
“Join me at dawn.” The queen’s voice broke the silence, a command, not an invitation. “In five hours we march to Middleham.”
War. War against friends, other powerful noble families who believed that both the Duke of York’s claim to the throne—and his mental capabilities—were stronger than Henry’s.
War. Tensions had grown so that all hope for peace had been spent. They had moved past civil words that could heal, past carefully conceived marriages like that of even Henry and Margaret, designed to make peace yet destined to split the realm even more deeply.
A cold knot settled in Stephen’s stomach. War meant sacrificing life or injuries more devastating than death. Thinly veiled “invitations” were issued to contribute food, horses and supplies many could ill afford to spare.
He worried for his family, Nicole’s family, for Somerset, for all of England.
“Six thousand?” Stephen asked.
“You will meet with James Touchet, Baron Audley, at Coventry, thence north to intercept Salisbury.” She stood taller. “The king is beloved by his people. Lord Audley commands over ten thousand men.”
She handed the pins to the knight closest to her. He approached Ulger, offering the pewter pin. The silver pin he had earlier bragged about was ceremonial. This one was lighter, less dear, but heavily charged with a royal order. Acceptance meant immediate call to battle. Ulger’s mouth tightened as if the knight had offered up a spoonful of bedbugs. He was an old man, a merchant. Unlike Stephen’s father, Ulger had not trained at the lists for decades. The rigors of traveling over 400 miles would be tiring but the challenge of armed combat against men half his age would be deadly. Still, he had strewn passionate promises of loyalty at Margaret’s feet like bouquts of spring violets and he had no choice now but to nod and accept the pin.
The knight approached Emilyne with three pins. “For your best knights, my lady,” he said.
“I accept with honor on their behalf,” Emilyne said.
“We will need food as well,” he said.
Emilyne blanched, likely visioning her soon-to-be depleted pantries and larders. “It will be our pleasure to provision your army, your grace.”
The knight next approached Stephen. “From your queen,” the knight said. “The other is for your father, Lord Tabor—should he wish to put to rest those questions of loyalty.” The knight handed Stephen two swan pins.
* * *
Stephen entered Nicole’s old chamber. Sharai stood watching from the unshuttered window at the action in the bailey below.
She turned when he entered. Her long braid hung over her shoulder and she wore a light tunic. Mariel was boiling herbs at the hearth, her temples glistening with sweat under her red cap.
“Who has arrived?” Sharai asked.
Binnie sat up, alert, in bed. “Is it really the queen?”
“Yes,” Stephen said.
“I want to see her,” Binnie said, starting to get up.
“No.” Sharai and Stephen spoke at once.
“You can see her from the window,” Sharai said. “When they all mount to leave.”
Stephen turned to his mother. “You could have come to the solar,” Stephen said. “Was it because of Emilyne?”
“My skin,” she said simply.
“I can understand Coventry, and London, but here in Somerset? That’s not right,” Stephen said heatedly. “It’s—”
“Prudent,” she said. “Do not fight truth. In matters outside Coin Forest, my color is a hazard to your father. What news does Margaret bring?”
He showed her the swan pin. “We are to travel north to Middleham.”
“Almost to Scotland,” Sharai said.
“Scotland,” Binnie repeated, his voice soft with wonder. “I want to go.”
Stephen turned so he faced Binnie. “Children are not coming on this trip.”
“I am not a child. I am over twelve.”
Stephen shook his head. “Salisbury is riding south to combine forces with York. Lord Audley commands the king’s army.” He showed her the swan pin. “Margaret gave me this. One for me, one for Father.”
His mother covered her stomach with her hand and closed her eyes.
Stephen’s eyelids grew hot. He could only imagine her fears, mayhaps mental images of the thousands of new graves that would be dug in the church yards, that among them would be her husband’s—or son’s—or both.
She proffered her hand, so small, visibly shaking. “I will give it to him.”
Stephen pressed it in her hand, closed her fingers over it, and took her into his arms. He had to swallow before he could speak. “Harry, Morys and Warin will take you home. Please take Four with you.” He released her.
“Of course. But Binnie…” Sharai turned to the boy.
Mariel took her hand. “He is stronger, Sharai. I will continue your poultices and herbs. I will take care of him.”
Sharai let out a ragged sigh. She hurried to Binnie, gave him a hug. “You have been strong, Binnie. Be patient just a little longer. Drink your syrups for Mariel and I will bring you a treat.”
Binnie jutted his chin, his eyes dark. “I do not want a ‘treat.’ I want to fight with Stephen. I can squire,” he said, his expression hopeful.
“You are strong. Another boy would have died from your wounds. But you are not yet strong enough. You and James, the two of you can help here at Faierfield.” She hurried to her travel bag and returned to Stephen with an amulet.
He bent down and kissed her soft cheek, and she kissed him twice on the forehead. “Ves’ tacha,” she whispered.
My beloved. Feeling years younger of a sudden, Stephen’s throat constricted, and he tried to swallow.
She placed the necklace round his neck. “Trust your father, no one else. Stay close to him. God speed, my son.” She touched the amulet one last time and left.
* * *
Nicole ventured a look from the tack room where she had been waiting. In the outer stable, stalls were filled and over-flowing with the queen’s horses. Stable hands hurried, removing saddles, rubbing the horses down. Farriers checked horses for injuries after their trip. Outside, the lists were over-run with horses being watered.
Straightening her full height, she strolled purposefully to the horse stall. The sleek animal inside snorted a greeting.
Nicole patted his neck. Calming him with her voice, she bridled him and gently placed his saddle pads and saddle on. “Come on, boy,” she said, leading him out.
A grizzled knight with pox scars stopped her. “Where are you going?”
Her heart hurried. She could not fail at this. Replacing the fear with anger she slapped his hand off her arm.
It produced the desired effect. Her height and her arrogance caused him to stand on his heels.
“My husband wishes to fit him for his barding,” Nicole said. “Should you object, I will summon him.”
He pulled his hands away and let her pass.
Once outside, she hesitated. In the congestion, no clear path presented itself. She needed to get to the church.
George the stable master spotted her and approached, question in his eyes. His wide face, deeply lined with wrinkles, showed the strain of his stables being over-run in the middle of the night.
“Oh, George,” she said. “Tend to Grace, would you? She’s in her stall and seems to be favoring her left front leg.”
She led her horse away from George, walking swiftly past the lists.
She stopped behind the church and waited in the shadows to be sure she had not been followed. She unlocked the back door swiftly and coaxed the horse through the small opening with a chunk of sugar.
The horse clomped inside to the back room.
Father Matthew rose from the table where he had been writing. “Get that animal out of here. What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry. Please forgive me, Father. I vow, any damage done will be repaired, everything cleaned.” She patted the horse firmly on the neck. “I must do this.”
Leaving the annoyed priest, Nicole closed and locked the door, and hurried to the kitchen.
* * *
Stephen crossed his arms, stretching his shoulder blades as far as he could. His armor moved smoothly. From his chamber, he heard the waning noise in the great hall as people re-settled for rest before the fast-approaching morning.
“That’s a good fit, my lord.” Robert, a fourteen-year-old squire on loan from Sir Daniel, adjusted the cuirass and secured it.
“Help me out of it.”
Robert reversed the process, removing the vambrace and breastplate. “Morning cannot come quickly enough,” he said, his face lit with excitement. “Think of it. Marching in His Majesty’s royal army.”
Stephen closed his eyes, remembering Normandy. “I was but two years older than you when I fought in France.”
“For the royal army? Did you ride under King Henry?”
It would not do to tell this young boy of the king’s dismal military skills. “No, I fought under Gough and Kyriell’s command.” Knowing that this excitement, this heady anticipation of glory in battle might well be the only good thing to come out of this conflict, Stephen did not tell him of the mud, the hunger, the stench of casual latrines, or the long hours of boredom tinged by brooding worry, waiting for the piercing arrows and swords to fly.
“Which battle was it? How many marched with you?” Robert asked.
“Formigny. Five thousand.”
“Five thousand.” His young voice near sang the number. Hunger for glory shone in Robert’s eyes.
Stephen would not mention the sight of bodies bursting from the pummeling of the cannon, of the deadly archers, the showers of blades falling from the blue sky, piercing armor, flesh, lung. And the soft sighs of death that haunted for months. “Over two thousand died. Every other Englishman fell.” Stephen gave Robert a pointed look. “Honor is important, but let it not distract you from the danger, not for a moment.”
“Yes, my lord.” Robert placed the armor and padded hauberks in Stephen’s trunk.
“That will be all, Robert. Sleep if you can. Our journey is long.”
Robert left. Alice was belowstairs helping board the army cooks and laundresses, and silence filled the chamber.
Robert had gone, lost in the juices of his own springtime, eager for battle and the heady rush of conquest.
The speaking of it, the impending reality of it brought back the images again, and once unlocked they lingered stubbornly in Stephen’s mind. A field of green splashed with red—and the dead—horses, valiant creatures serving their masters, broken and silenced. Men past care, their hands reaching up to heaven. Dying men roiling in their agony, crying, groaning, protesting their fate. The silent ones, seeing to the end, laboring with their last breaths.
Into that living, dying sea of men seventeen-year-old Stephen had walked, searching the faces, careful not to step on a leg, terrified he would lay eyes on his father, see his big hand reaching toward God and, if he did see his father’s hand, what would he tell his mother if his father’s wedding rings had been plundered?
Wedding rings. He looked at his own, hastily cheaped circles of gold. Nicole had inscribed nothing sentimental, just their initials and the date, 29 August, 1459. I may not live to be with her again.
His body stirred from the memory of her kisses, free as rain and stimulating, given with enthusiasm, fire. Last night she had finally come to him—not in resignation to a Gypsy, not in duty to her husband, but in passion, to him as a man.
And now to war, to defend a king who could not defend England, but who loved England as much as Stephen did. He would follow his queen to battle.
Was this some cruel twist to his mother’s spell, intended to protect him from the family curse? He shook his head to dispel the nonsense thought. Binnie’s supposed idiocy had been exposed as deafness, and Nicole had inherited her height from her mother and her sharp, bitter tongue from years of listening to her mother and the naysayers who bred fear.
He slid his ring back on, the metal warm to the touch, the future cold and uncertain.
The door opened and Nicole entered. Bursts of white powder covered her blue gown.
She followed his gaze. “Flour. I was helping in the larder.” Her green eyes glistened with moisture.
Stephen’s throat grew tight. He busied himself brushing the folds of her gown.
She blinked and frowned. “My father used to tell me of the hardships at battle. You will not be wanting. I brought this for you.” She handed him a tightly packed bag. “Dried beef. Smoked herring. Two of Cheddar’s best cheese rounds. A dozen of the freshest apples, half of them ripe, the others almost.”
Her voice betrayed the threat of tears. “Good,” he said. “That should last me a day or two.”
She laughed, a sound more of relief than humor. “They should last at least a fortnight.” She patted the bag. “Mariel gave me some of your mother’s salves and healing leaves.” Her eyes glistened again. “Should you be injured, you will need them.”
He took the bag from her trembling hands. “Come here.”
She fell into his arms and they embraced.
Nicole rested her head on his shoulder. Her blond hair had fallen from her headdress, and he ran his fingers through the silken strands, holding her close.
She released a ragged sigh. “I can’t let you go.”
“My king calls me.”
“The queen.”
“It’s the same. She speaks for him.”
“And now she will take you away from me. By the light of heaven, I cannot lose you.”
He kneaded her back and the base of her neck. He would fight three armies to come home to her. “You will not.”
“But six thousand men.”
“We have more.”
“Remember Agincourt.”
Stephen smiled. “We’re both too young to remember that, but I will remind Lord Audley of it and discourage any over-confidence.” He lifted a tendril of her hair and tickled her nose. “But enough dreary talk.”
Stephen bolted the door and removed his bulky hauberk.
He turned her away from him, kissing the smooth skin on her back. Unlacing her sleeves, he listened to the lace whisper through each eyelet.
She reached to help him.
He stayed her hand. “For now, we have time. No haste, no knives slashing gowns. Let us take what we have been given.”
He released the last of the laces and the simple gown slid off her long, lithe body. The chemise followed.
Her hair fell like golden rain over her shoulders, her breasts peeking through invitingly, and his gaze followed the fluid curve of her waist and hips, her long thighs, the milky softness of her skin.
He slipped from his clothes and pulled her to him. They stood, heart to heart, skin to skin in the candle light, sharing their warmth, the air, the fleeting moment his words could not lengthen.
A hint of roses drifted to him, a touch of heather in her hair, and the intoxicating musk and salty tang of her skin as he kissed her shoulders.
Her eyes closed, releasing a large tear.
He kissed it, wiped it with his thumb.
She sighed softly and trembled at his touch.
Settling on the bed he took her hand, pulled her to him.
They lay down together. She sank in the crook of his arm and he rested his chin on the top of her head, stroking her hair.
He held her hand, twisting her wedding rings, the precious emerald and pearl ring from her mother’s lofty ancestors, the thick, gold ring with exotic carvings of butterflies from his mother, the gold ring engraved on the outside with the three rings of Ellingham; the Faierfield ring and the simple gold ring he had given her.
He removed his ring from her third finger, silently read the engraving, “Till death.”
She followed his gaze and covered his hand. “Pray do not think that.”
He kissed her fingers. “ ‘Tis not morbid. It tells of the steadfastness of my commitment to you.”
He turned so they were facing each other. “When you wear this ring, it means that even if I am hundreds of miles away, we are still together.”
She withdrew her hand, her face tight. “I fear for your life.”
“Do not wear this in fear.” His voice had grown gruff and he struggled to keep it even. “Fear is a shadow. I would that you wear this in joy.” He thought of how he might reassure her.
He turned the ring it so it caught the fire and candlelight. “This ring is our future.” He held it to his lips, kissed it, and held it to hers. She did so, reverently.
He turned her so she lay on her back. Rising over her he propped on his left elbow, circled the ring lightly on her cheek.
She reached for his hand.
“Relax. Feel it on your skin,” he said. Holding the ring between his thumb and forefinger he moved it lightly, in circular motions over her long, graceful neck, at the delicate spot at the base of her throat, at the soft curve of her shoulders He followed the ring’s path with his mouth, planting soft kisses over the sumptuous swells of her body.
The ring trailed lightly over the curve of her right breast, circling her nipple. He bent to it, lathing her nipple to erection.
Her sudden intake of breath hardened him. He struggled to remain intent on his message.
The ring slid slowly toward her left breast.
Anticipating, she turned to make the path easier. He suckled again, harder.
She groaned, a pleasure-filled sound from deep within her.
Fresh desire pumped into him. Her green eyes, fixed on him, responsive to him, an unspoken bond of passion and trust as she lay open, as he had dreamed, open and eager for him.
Head spinning with the heat and musky desire for her, he denied his own pleasure, accepting the discomfort as the price for the rioting desire in his own loins. The ring moved, slow and tantalizing, down her stomach, pulsing visibly under his touch.
Circling her naval, he kissed her there and continued lower, his fingertips skimming the sweet smoothness of her skin.
He passed lower still, hovering over her femininity, marking it as his target.
Realizing his intent, her hand raised in protest. “No...”
“Yes.” He stored her ring on his fifth finger. Lifting her to him like the sweet morsel she was, he tasted her.
She writhed under him, her fingers combing through his hair, clutching his scalp.
“We are one.” His body tense, he slid the ring back on her finger and positioned himself over her.