Always Page 4

  "Aye. Well, when I spied the cats behind the barn, the male cat was biting the female on the back of the neck as he covered her."

  "Oh, nay. That is only to keep the female in place. You, being a dutiful wife, will not need such action taken."

  "Nay, of course not," Rosamunde agreed. Eustice turned to open the door to the chapel a crack and peer curiously inside.

  "Will he wish to sniff my behind?"

  Eustice shrieked, then slammed the chapel door closed and whirled to gape at her.

  "Well, you said 'twas the same as animals," Rosamunde said innocently. "And they sniff--"

  "Lord love us!" Eustice interrupted fervently. She opened her mouth to speak, but paused at the mischievous twinkle in the girl's eye. Her gaze narrowed. "You are being naughty again," she accused. Rosamunde managed a solemn expression.

  "Oh, nay, sister."

  "Hmmm. Then shall we--"

  "What does the covering consist of exactly?" Rosamunde interrupted.

  "Covering?" Eustice echoed, her confusion obvious.

  "Mating. For instance, when Angus the bull approaches one of the cows and mounts her. What is he doing, exactly?"

  Making a face, Eustice considered her question briefly, then explained. "Angus has a thing...."

  "A thing?"

  "Aye. It is about...oh...yea long." She held her hands about a foot or so apart. "And round. Well, not round, but--it is shaped rather like a cucumber."

  "A cucumber?" Rosamunde tried to picture the man in the stables sporting a foot-long cucumber between his legs.

  "Aye." Eustice seemed to be gaining strength--and speed--as she continued. "Angus inserts his cucumber into Maude, stirs it about a bit, spills his seed, and 'tis done."

  "Well," Rosamunde murmured now, trying to be optimistic. "I suppose it could not possibly be worse than scrubbing the stone floors in the winter." A body usually came away with chapped knees and an aching back. Spending hours kneeling on the damp stones in the drafty old convent, was her least favorite task.

  "Hmm. Except for the pain, I doubt it is."

  "Pain?" Rosamunde eyed her sharply.

  Eustice nodded reluctantly. "I have heard there is pain, Rosamunde, and I gather there is even blood. At least, the first time."

  Rosamunde paled. "Blood?"

  "Aye. They say that it proves the bride's innocence."

  "But--"

  "'Tis the price we pay for Eve's sin."

  "Eve's sin," Rosamunde muttered resentfully. How often had Father Abernott spit that phrase at them? He had hammered it into them to the point that those words were practically branded on her soul. "I thought Jesus died for our sins? Or was that only for men's sins?" she asked dryly.

  Eustice was saved from dealing with that question. The door beside them opened and a somewhat frantic abbess slid out. "Whatever is taking you so long? The king is quite wroth at this delay."

  "Rosamunde had some last-minute questions," Eustice explained dryly.

  "What sort of questions, dear?" the abbess asked kindly.

  "Did not Jesus die for our sins?" Rosamunde asked.

  "Aye. Of course he did," the abbess assured her quickly, but was obviously confused by the comment.

  "Then why do we suffer pain in the consummation and bleed?"

  Adela's shoulders sagged, blowing her breath out in dismay. With a look that was somewhere between consternation and fond regret, the abbess merely said, "We really do not have time for such complicated theological discussions now, child. Mayhap you should ask Father Abernott that after the ceremony. Come now. Your father really is eager to have this done."

  Father Abernott was a stuffy little priest, normally puffed up with self-importance. Performing the marriage of the king's daughter, illegitimate or not, at the king's request, and in his very own exalted presence, had the man inflated beyond endurance. Haughtiness was oozing off him as he presided over the ceremony. The congregation was made up of the king, Shrewsbury, the groom, a second man who appeared to be the groom's friend, and every single nun who resided within the convent--the others having begged the abbess to allow them to attend. Most of them had been at the abbey since Rosamunde's arrival and had watched her grow to womanhood with interest and affection. They were like family to Rosamunde. Which was why the abbess had given in to their pleas and allowed them to witness the ceremony. Their presence seemed merely to add to the priest's pretentious behavior, however.

  Barely able to stand the man's self-satisfied expression, Rosamunde ignored his words and turned her gaze to his bald pate instead. The sight of his shiny scalp made her lips begin to tremble with wicked amusement. Every single one of the unflattering names she and some of the younger nuns had come up with to describe the man when they were annoyed with him were rolling through her mind one after the other, and threatening her with inappropriate laughter.

  She quickly lowered her gaze to the skirt of her gown. It was the best she had. Made of the softest linen, it fit her upper frame snugly, then flared slightly at the waist. Hours had been spent crafting this gown, for Rosamunde had wanted it to be just right. But she had created it for taking the veil, not taking a husband. Not an earthly one, at any rate.

  Stifling a small sigh, she glanced curiously at the man beside her. He seemed rather big to her, and Rosamunde was five-foot-nine herself. She had been told that her mother was more petite, but her father was over six feet tall. She could only assume that God had split the difference with her.

  She had always felt tall. Most of the women here in the convent were at least two or three inches shorter than her. Rosamunde had always felt a bit gawky and overlarge around them. Next to this man, however, she felt almost petite. He was as tall and powerful-looking as her father. She had noticed that about him before, though it was really all she had noticed at the time. Now she took a more thorough inventory of the man she was suddenly to wed.

  He had a broad chest. Thick, strong arms. Thighs that bulged with strength from years on horseback. Nicely shaped calves and ankles. Hair like bright sunlight. Eyes the deep green of a grassy glen. Rugged features that hinted at battles fought and most likely won. Skin weathered by years spent vulnerable to the elements.

  He certainly looked healthy enough, she supposed. Handsome as well. The laugh lines on his face were a good sign, she thought optimistically, then sighed as she tried to recall his name. Her father had said it on introducing them, she was sure. What had it been? Issac? Erin?

  Aric, she recalled suddenly. Aye, Aric. Her husband. Aric.

  Aric who? she wondered briefly, then shrugged. The second name was beyond her recollection.

  "My lady."

  Rosamunde turned swiftly forward at that imperious demand, flushing brightly at being caught staring. She realized she had missed something. Most likely something important, too, she decided when the priest shook his head with disapproval. "My lady, should I repeat your vows?"

  Aric peered at the girl beside him as she whispered her vows. He had been uncomfortably aware of her eyes on him as the priest had performed the first part of the ceremony. She had been examining him so intently he had begun to feel uneasy. Now he subjected her to a similar perusal, hoping she was too distracted to notice.

  She had nearly taken his breath away when she had entered the chapel. The transformation from hoyden to lovely damsel was quite thorough. For a moment, he had not realized that it was she, and he had the brief mad thought that Henry's fair Rosamunde walked again--a ghost here to witness her daughter's wedding. But then he had realized that the locks that framed her lovely face were not the golden halo that had graced the mother, but the fiery red her father's hair had been in his youth.

  That realization had barely told him that this was his bride, when his attention had been turned by Robert's amazed gasp. Then the girl was at his side and the priest had begun. Now Aric took the time to look her over. Her face was a perfect oval. Her skin was purest ivory with the faintest dusting of freckles. Her features were flawless. She had
full lips. A small, straight nose. Keen gray eyes like her father's dominated her face. Those eyes sparkled with intelligence and intensity, and Aric had actually felt the energy rolling off of her as she had entered the room. It had seemed to strike out at him like a physical blow. She had inherited that from her father, too. Henry had that sort of presence. Or once had. Lately a great deal of that energy seemed to be drained from the great man. He seemed worn down by his cares. His sons, Aric suspected, were at the heart of that.

  "My lord."

  Eyebrows rising, Aric turned to the sanctimonious little priest, grimacing as he realized he had been caught out just as his bride had moments before. Feeling Robert's amusement, Aric nudged his dark-haired friend irritably with an elbow as the priest huffily repeated his words.

  Despite his feelings on the marriage, when Aric spoke the vows back, his voice was strong and firm. The king wished Aric to marry his daughter. He would marry her. And he would keep her safe and well--as a husband should. But he had learned his lesson well from Delia. He would not risk his heart. Even the king could not force him to do that.

  Rosamunde blinked as the priest pronounced them wed. Was that it? A few words in Latin? Making a promise or two? And you were bound for life? A firm hold on her arm drew her bemused gaze to her father. He turned her away from the priest and ushered her out of the chapel.

  "All will be well."

  Rosamunde's eyebrows rose at the anxiety belying her father's assurance as he led her down the dim hall. "Of course it will," she agreed, trying to soothe him even though she wasn't at all sure what she was referring to. Frowning slightly, she glanced over her shoulder to see that the bishop, her new husband, and his friend were following. They were trailed by the abbess, Sister Eustice, Father Abernott, and every single one of the nuns.

  Rosamunde peered back at her father, surprised to see the concern on his face as he urged her down the corridor that led to the private cells. He appeared hardly aware of her presence, despite the firm hold he had on her arm. Also, it seemed to her that he was trying to reassure himself more than her.

  "I always preferred Burkhart. I weeded out dozens of men, hundreds of them over the years, and he was always the best option for you. He is strong, wealthy, and honorable. He will be able to protect you, yet treat you with the care you deserve. I am sure he will. All will be well."

  "Of course it will," Rosamunde repeated, trying to ease his obviously troubled mind. Lord knew her father had enough to worry about without concerning himself with her welfare.

  Seeming almost startled by her voice, he stopped suddenly and glanced at her anxiously. "You are not too angry with me over spoiling your plans to take the veil, are you? You--"

  "Of course not, Father," Rosamunde interrupted quickly, her heart aching at his uncertainty. She had never seem him thus. He had always been strong and commanding. "I could never hate you."

  "Nay. Of course not," he said, and found a smile. "I am sorry about this, daughter."

  "Sorry?" Rosamunde frowned. "About what?"

  "I wish there were more time. You deserve more time. You deserve all the care and consideration in the world, and I would pay my entire treasury if it would give you that time, but--" Shaking his head when he noticed her confused expression, he kissed her quickly on the forehead, opened the door they stood beside, and urged her through it. "I promise he shall be as gentle as time will allow.... Else I shall have him drawn and quartered." He said the last rather loudly, to ensure that her husband heard, she suspected.

  It was terribly confusing, but not nearly as much as the fact that she now found herself back in her cell, the small chamber that had been her bedroom since she was a child. Confusion plain on her face, she turned quickly back, forestalling her father when he would have closed her door. "What are we doing here?"

  Much to Rosamunde's amazement, her father, His Royal Highness, the king of England, actually blushed. He mumbled a response that was wholly incoherent except for one word that seemed to leap out at her like a snake from beneath a rock.

  "Bedding!" she cried out in shock. "Now?"

  Her father actually reddened further, looking about as embarrassed as she was shocked. "Aye."

  "But, 'tis still daylight! Sister Eustice's list said 'twas a sin to"--she paused briefly, then whispered the word fornicate before continuing in her normal voice--"while 'tis light out."

  Her father straightened abruptly, his embarrassment fleeing before his irritation. "Aye? Well Sister Eustice be damned! I will see this marriage consummated ere I leave. I'll not risk an annulment or some other such thing once I am out of the way. I want you protected should I die, and so you shall be."

  "Aye, but could we not at least wait until dark and--"

  "Nay. I do not have time for that. I must return to Chinon as soon as possible. So..." He gestured vaguely toward the bed, some of his embarrassment returning. "Get you ready. I shall have a word with your husband." On that note, he pulled the door closed, leaving her alone.

  Aric watched the king close the door on his daughter. He straightened his shoulders manfully and waited for the monarch's attention to turn to him. He, Shambley, the bishop, the priest, the abbess, and all the nuns had stood silently listening as the king had made his apologies and threats. The man was definitely upset. Aric supposed it was hard for any father to accept the idea of his sweet and innocent young daughter being bedded, but this was the king's idea, after all. Aric certainly didn't appreciate the constant threat of being drawn and quartered being tossed at him repeatedly.

  Sighing inwardly, Aric had to wonder how he always managed to get himself into these things. Would he survive the wedding night, and if he did, just how long would it be before some inadvertent future misstep saw him drawn and quartered anyway? Just now Delia was looking like an extremely attractive alternative to this. Even with her thighs wrapped around old Glanville. He ought to save himself all the trouble and anxiety and commit suicide right now. Aric sighed. He wasn't the suicidal sort.

  Several moments of silence passed before the king finally turned from the closed door to scowl at him. The expression on the man's face hardly supported his earlier avowals of liking Aric and thinking him the best option to husband his daughter.

  "Well," he said finally, some of his apparent dislike fading. He propped his hands on Aric's shoulders and clasped him firmly. "Rosamunde is my greatest treasure. The fruit of my love. I entrust her to you. I trust you will treat her gently, and handle her with the utmost care."

  "Of course, Your Majesty," Aric murmured dutifully.

  Nodding, the king turned to Bishop Shrewsbury and held out one hand. The man immediately handed over two candles. Taking them, Henry lit them both off a torch in a holder fastened to the wall, then turned to Aric and held them up side by side. "Do you see the mark I made on both of them?"

  Aric nodded as he saw the notches made in the wax. Both were at the exact same spot, less than a thumb's width down the candle.

  "Well, that is how long you have to get this done," he announced. He handed over one of the candles.

  Aric's hand closed automatically around the candle, but his eyes were wide with horror. He measured the notch again. It wasn't much more than a quarter of an inch from the now-lit wick. By his guess that was--"Why, that's not even ten minutes!"

  Henry nodded unhappily. "In truth, 'tis closer to five.... And the candle is lit and already burning your time away. You had best get to it."

  Aric gaped at him in horror, already seeing his head on a pike. "But--"

  "Do not 'but' me, Burkhart. Had I more time, do you not think I would give it to you? She is my daughter, man. She deserves a feast with great revelry and celebration for her wedding. Mayhap someday we can give her that. But not today." Turning, he handed the second candle back to Shrewsbury, then took Aric's arm in one hand. He reached out with the other to push open the door to Rosamunde's room. "Today we must do the best we can. And that means that you will be gentle, caring, and"--Henry pushed Aric,
holding his candle, through the door--"quick. We shall be waiting out here."

  The door slammed closed on the king's last word, and Aric was distracted by the need to shelter the flame of his lit candle from the breeze that was created. Once the risk of its being blown out had passed, a rustling sound drew his gaze to the girl who now stood by the head of a small bed.

  His bride. She faced him, still in her white gown--not looking fearful or nervous, as he had expected, but oddly resigned. Grim, even. Aric was pondering that when a drop of wax slid from the candle he held, splashing onto the flesh of his hand. That reminded him of the time constraints on this situation.

  Sighing inwardly, he glanced around the spare room, looking for a spot to set the candle. There wasn't much choice in the matter. All that the room contained was a bed and a chest, both of which were lined up against one wall, leaving barely a footwide length of space to walk in. Aric set the candle carefully on the chest, noted that he had already used up much of his time, then straightened and turned grimly to the girl. "You have not undressed."

  Her eyes widened slightly. "That is not necessary, is it?"

  Aric grimaced. She had been raised in a convent, so of course she knew that the Church considered it a sin to carry out marital relations while naked. The Church did like to take the fun out of the deed. He did not have the time now, but he promised himself that he would try later to soften her views on such things, else the task of getting her with child would be a terrible burden. He did want a son. In the meantime, he had to disrobe, at least partially; she would hardly appreciate the cool metal of his armor against her flesh.

  He removed his tabard, set it across the chest by the candle, and straightened to begin work on his hauberk when she, apparently taking it as some sort of cue, suddenly scrambled to the bed and crawled onto it. Aric continued with the removal of his hauberk, tugging the heavy mail shirt off over his head, only to pause with it in hand when he saw that she appeared frozen on all fours on the bed. She was situated in the middle of the hard little cot, on her hands and knees, her white-clad derriere poking into the sky. What was she doing? He stared at her behind silently for a moment, but when she stayed like that, he shifted uncertainly, then cleared his throat. "Ah...is there something amiss, my lady?"