by Brenda Joyce
“Shut up, Beth,” Alice snapped.
Mary wove yellow carnations into her hair. They formed a wreath around the crown of her head, then trailed down through the loose mass. Ceidre refused to look at herself in the proffered looking glass.
Rolfe was waiting for them downstairs, outside on the steps of the keep. He regarded her without expression. Ceidre, seeing him, felt an awful stabbing, and humiliation followed the hurt. She allowed herself a moment’s anger, seeking it, relishing it, and she glared, wishing she could smite him dead on the spot. He was completely indifferent, gesturing to the white palfrey awaiting her, the same one Alice had ridden to her wedding. Her feeling of being sick increased.
Guy was waiting at the chapel. Rolfe, as her lord and master, would give her away. He held the palfrey’s bridle and they descended down the motte and through the portcullis. The chapel was in the bailey, and everyone from Aelfgar had turned out for this event.
Ceidre did not look at anyone. She stared, instead, somewhat blindly at her palfrey’s dainty ears. Her gaze wandered to the squared shoulders of the man leading her mount. He was dressed for the occasion, in a royal-blue tunic and red mantle. She had a flashing image of how he had looked as he rode his stallion to his own wedding, godlike, pagan, beautiful, and ruthless. Recollections started to tumble, one after the other, through her mind—Rolfe stroking his own sex, Rolfe carrying her inside after the flogging; Rolfe drunk, smiling, cajoling a kiss from her; Rolfe as he sat his steed, ordering the razing of Kesop. As if feeling her regard, he abruptly glanced at her. Ceidre hoped her hatred showed. He looked away.
Guy was standing nervously in front of the chapel with Father Green, who, if in his cups, was hiding it well. Guy had also dressed for the occasion, in a fine green velvet mantle and tunic, with red hose. He blushed, not looking at her but once.
Rolfe helped her dismount, his touch impersonal, and led her to Guy. He stepped back. Father Green raised his voice, coughing once. To Guy, he said, “Hast thou will to have this women as thy wedded wife?”
“Yes, sir.”
“May thou well find at thy best to love her and hold ye to her and to no other to thy lives end.” “Yes, sir,” Guy said.
“Then take her by your hand and say after me I, Guy Le Chante, take thee, Ceidre, in form of holy church, to my wedded wife, forsaking all other, holding me holiest to thee, in sickness and health, in riches and poverty, in well and in woe, till death do us depart, and there to I plight ye my troth.”
Guy repeated the words, and it was done.
Ceidre had married Guy Le Chante.
Ceidre paced her chamber. She looked around. It was truly a bridal chamber, with garlands strewn across the bed, wine and food laid out. She was supposed to be readying herself to receive her new lord, but she would not. She was still clad in her yellow gown. At least, she decided, she could get rid of these flowers. She began removing them abruptly.
The wedding feast had lasted hours. All around them was drunken boisterous laughter and dancing. As the newlywed couple, they had graced the raised dais under the walnut tree. Guy had eaten and drunk merrily, in no rush to leave the festivities. Ceidre had not taken one bite of food or one sip of wine. At first, he had offered her, as a groom should, the choicest morsels of what he picked for himself. She had refused everything ungraciously. Then he had ceased offering anything to her. He had not attempted conversation after, which had suited her just fine. She had sat still as a stone, ignoring everything and everyone.
Except for Rolfe. She could not ignore him, not when she was so keenly aware of him, not when he sat on her right. Like her, he did not seem inclined to conversation, yet he made an effort to quip with Guy. She was aware that he gazed at her from time to time. She refused to acknowledge him. She did not look at him. She was in a strange state, her wedding almost felt like a dream. And this state was infinitely preferable to the pain she had felt upon awaking, that same pain she had harbored the past few days.
There was a knock upon her door.
Ceidre clenched her fists. “Enter.”
Guy appeared, closing the heavy door behind him. Then, noting her state of dress, he looked unsure. “I am sorry, I am too quick. I will come back.” He started to leave.
“No!” Her abrupt command halted him. “I am not readying myself for you,” she said, her tone hard. His eyes widened.
“I did not want this marriage,” she said furiously. “And I do not want you!”
His face changed, grew hard, making him seem older, making her remember that he was a Norman knight and one of Rolfe’s best men. “But I want this marriage,” he stated.
“You want Dumstanbrough—not me!”
He flushed. “’Tis true. But Dumstanbrough comes with you, ’tis your dowry. I will not give it up—or you.”
“You may have Dumstanbrough,” Ceidre spat. “I care not. But you will not have me.” He stared. “You deny me my husbandly rights?” “If you touch me,” Ceidre hissed, “I will kill you!”
He blinked.
“I will curse you, do not doubt it. Your manhood will shrivel up. Your teeth will fall out. You will lose your hair. You do not think I can do this?” She laughed, slightly hysterical. “I have potions! You will be an old man before your time! I warn you!”
Guy crossed himself nervously. “Do not do anything rash,” he said. “I would not hurt you!”
Ceidre relaxed slightly. “Look,” she said, “I will be your wife—I am your wife. You did not want me before this wedding. I know it. You have never looked at me the way a man looks at a woman.” Bitterness touched her tone. “Men do not look at me that way, not once they know of my eye. I am used to it. No one needs know what passes between us. Just because we are married, you do not need to come to my bed, when you do not want me, when you are afraid of me. Seek out your lemans, I care not. Can we agree on this?”
“But what about children? I need heirs.”
“Then take a mistress,” Ceidre said frankly. “Make sure she is a virgin and is faithful to you. Adopt her get. ’Tis simple enough.”
“In truth, I do not want you,” Guy said. His words stabbed at her. Ludicrously she thought of Rolfe. “But not because I am afraid of you.”
“Of course not.”
“’Tis most unnatural not to consummate a marriage.”
“No one will know. Besides, you have not married a natural woman. Do you really want to bed one with the eye?”
Guy grimaced. “No, I do not. Not when the world is full of fair wenches. I have just never shied from my duty before.”
“Guy, what about your duty to God?”
He suddenly smiled. “You are right. You are not natural, not godly. My first duty is to God. Why did I not think of that? We have a bargain, then. But no one must know the truth, Ceidre. No one.”
“Believe me,” she said, overwhelmingly relieved. “I will not tell a soul.”
They stared at each other, then Guy shrugged. He strode to the trencher on the chest and picked up a pastry. “Are you hungry?”
Ceidre smiled. She was suddenly starved. She opened her mouth to reply, but her words were cut off. There was a violent pounding upon the door.
Ceidre froze. Guy leapt forward, hand upon the hilt of his sword. “Who is it!”
“’Tis your lord, open up,” Rolfe demanded harshly.
Guy threw open the door anxiously. “What is it! Are we attacked?”
Rolfe stared at Guy, his blue eyes brilliant. “I have come to claim my rights.”
Guy was taken aback. “Of course,” he said instantly. “What rights, my lord?”
Rolfe’s diamond-hard gaze swung to Ceidre. “Le droit du seigneur.”
A stunned silence ensued.
Ceidre’s stare was locked with Rolfe’s. The meaning of his words shocked her—he had come to bed his vassal’s bride. Her heart was banging wildly, uncontrollably. His gaze did not waver from hers. In it she saw both anger and fierce, unyielding determination.
N
either was aware of Guy, who recovered first, glancing from one to the other. “Of course, my lord,” he murmured, backing out, and then the heavy door swung shut behind him, with a bang as loud and ominous as a clap of thunder.
Ceidre jumped; Rolfe moved. He suddenly unclasped the brooch holding his black mantle together and let the heavy cloth fall to the floor. Ceidre’s eyes widened, she took a step back. He was unbuckling his sword belt. Total comprehension set in. He would take her now. Now, after rejecting her, after giving her so casually to another. Now, at his convenience—not hers. “You can’t mean this!” She gasped.
For the first and only time, he removed his glance from her, to lay his sword carefully aside. Then she was pierced again by bold, brilliant blue eyes. “Oh, I do meant it,” he said harshly. There was nothing smug in his tone.
He was shrugging off his tunic in one quick movement and tossing it aside. In the flickering candlelight his naked torso rippled and gleamed like bronze.
She was still stunned by what was happening, by the impossibility of it, the arrogance. “You have given me to Guy!”
His stare was hard, blazing like his tone. Was there a trace of bitterness there? “You think I do not know this, and know it too damn well?”
She clutched the bedpost. “And Alice!” she cried desperately. “Alice is my sister—your wife!”
“I am lord of Aelfgar!” he shouted furiously. It was the wrath of gods. “I am lord here!”
Ceidre reacted in real terror. She whirled and raced around to the other side of the bed. Rolfe ran after her. Even as she moved, she knew, with a huge, terrible fear, that there was nowhere for her to run to, that she could not escape. His mind was made up, and his will was steel. His iron hand closed on her wrist, dragging her forcefully up against his body. “No!” she screamed, struggling like a madwoman.
With his leg, he caught hers deftly, knocking her feet out from under her. She went down, as he had intended, and was on her back in a trice, writhing and bucking, while he straddled her, a knee on each side of her hips. He seized her wrists. His thighs were rock-hard, pinning her in place as she twisted desperately, futilely. He released her and, in one violent movement, ripped her gown and undertunic open, from throat to waist.
With a vicious cry, Ceidre raked his cheek with her nails, drawing blood and flesh.
His response was immediate; he grabbed both of her wrists with one hand, wrenching them up over her head and holding them down on the hard floor. She froze in the face of his overwhelming power. For one moment they stared at each other, his expression savage, determined, hers panicked.
“Do not fight me,” he commanded. “You cannot win.”
“I will always fight you,” she cried, bucking again, hopelessly trying to dislodge him. “Norman!”
He kneed her thighs far apart, throwing her skirt up to her waist. There was one instant in which she was aware of the large, wet tip of his penis suddenly free and naked against her inner thigh. Ceidre fought to close her legs but it was useless. He impaled her.
Ceidre gasped from the lightning lancing of pain. She turned her head aside and closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding furiously. He drove himself into her roughly, quickly, deeply. She could feel him, every inch of him, all the slickness and power. His rhythm was harsh, fast and deep, the pace increasing, increasing … And then he collapsed with a raw cry on top of her.
So it was over, she thought, as a tear trickled down her cheeks. It had come to pass. No seduction, but a rape. At least it had been mercifully quick. She lay very still, her heart thundering, hoping he would revive quickly and leave her.
He made no attempt to roll off her. Ceidre could not help but be aware of many things. His face was buried in her neck. She could feel his beard, slightly rough, and his breath, warm and rapid against her flesh. His hard chest crushed her naked breasts, and his heart was thudding as fiercely as hers. His legs were between hers, tight, not relaxed, holding her thighs apart. And the semisoft maleness of him was still inside her, reminding her of the heat and hardness she had just experienced, reminding her of the slickness and power…. He was throbbing within her, demanding her sensual response.
His arms, around her, tightened. Ceidre hoped he would get up now. There was a new nagging feeling raising itself, one she did not care for. Her breasts ached when he shifted slightly, her nipples hard and tight—she could not mistake that the feeling was pleasant, and worse, where she held him inside her she was aching as well. Then she felt something else. His mouth, open on her neck.
Ceidre tried to twist away, but pinned beneath him, in his embrace, she could not. His lips nibbled so gently, and a fierce stabbing of pleasure swept her. Again she shifted uneasily. She felt his mouth on her throat. One of his hands teased the side of her breast, causing her breath to choke inside her. And within her, she felt him hardening. Helplessly her body contracted around him, and she could feel it, and was stunned at the heat and length and fullness she housed. He groaned, pushed deeper into her, and raised himself slightly to look into her eyes.
Ceidre met his gaze, but she could barely think. She certainly could not breathe. Her body was throbbing madly, fevered with desire. She arched her pelvis, trying to pull him into her more fully, even deeper. He smiled slightly, and bent and claimed her lips.
She opened to him, unsurely.
His hand caught a hank of her hair. He played ever so softly with her mouth, gently inserting his tongue. She opened wider, straining against him. He probed deeper, rocking his huge shaft as far as he could into her. Ceidre gasped into his mouth, the sound a startled plea. She kissed him back, demandingly now, and her mouth caught his, nipping insistently.
It was an explosion. He anchored her head, kissing her wildly, forcefully, their tongues battling, their teeth grating. He lifted his head and thrust into her, again and again. Ceidre rocked madly against him, eyes closed, head thrown back. She was clinging to his massive shoulders. As he drove into her, she felt his mouth on her nipple, felt his teeth. It was the end, for her world exploded in sensations the likes of which were unimaginable, and she was lost, lost to this existence, climaxing again and again.
She opened her eyes slowly, stunned. He was braced on his hands over her, still hard and throbbing within her, not moving, watching her with a brilliant gaze. What had happened? she thought frantically Remembrance came floooding back. This was the Norman. The man she hated. He had raped her violently, and moments later she had attained the fiercest of desire, and the most agonizing of ecstasy, in his arms. She blushed, with shame and fury. She pushed at his shoulders. “Get off,” she hissed.
But he was already ducking his head. Ceidre remained rigid for one more moment as his tongue swept her nipple, teasing and taunting, and then she gave in to the hot, agonizing pleasure he had induced. She clutched his head to her breast, his hair caught in her fingers, uncaring. He laughed hoarsely, the sound full of triumph. He began nipping and licking her breasts until she was moaning in complete abandonment, pumping her hips against him wildly, frantically, panting, gasping, and then he allowed himself, finally, to join her, thrusting fiercely, roughly, deeply, and this time their cries of pleasure came together.
Ceidre had just become cognizant of her surroundings again when Rolfe rolled off her. “I don’t want to leave you,” he murmured. She had to look at him. He was on his knees beside her, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, so powerfully and beautifully made. His hose was open; his manhood hung thick, flaccid, wet. Her gaze found his face.
He was also studying her openly, and his hand swept over her full, lush breasts, down to her small waist, and across the softness of her belly. His touch was, it seemed, reverent. She could not read his expression, as contained as it was, yet when his gaze lifted, Ceidre saw the smoldering, uncontainable glow in his eyes. Before she could react, he was lifting her and carrying her to the bed. So it was not yet over, she thought, and realized, dumbly, that the surging in her heart was gladness.
He climbed in next to
her, stretching his full, long length out beside her, his hand again on her belly, propped up on one elbow. He was caressing her languidly, with obvious enjoyment and with clear carnal intent. She watched his hand, so large, like all of him, on the pale skin of her abdomen; she watched his expression as it became strained. She could feel his manhood thickening against her thigh. Ceidre heard her own sigh, knew her eyes had drifted closed, felt herself arch sensually beneath his touch. His response was a guttural sound. And then he threaded his fingers through the dense curls guarding her femininity, and she gasped, half pleasure, half protest.
He groaned, sliding his hand completely over her, one finger parting the wet folds of her, and he held her like that. All thought of protest died. Ceidre pushed herself further into his grip. “Please,” she thought she heard herself say.
His mouth caught her nipple, tugging it. His fingers slid slickly into a deep cleft. Ceidre moaned loudly, lost to everything but what he was doing, and with urgency, she thrust herself at him. With his own cry, he rolled on top of her, entering her.
Rolfe cradled her as she lay asleep in his arms.
He could not sleep; he would not sleep. He had taken her many times, he himself had finished thrice, but he was not tired. He was alive, the kind of alertness that he had experienced only after a battle, every nerve ending tingling, blood pumping, mind working. He lay on his side, one strong leg flung over hers, his arms around her. He pulled her closer, if possible, into his embrace.
The candles had long since burned down, but he had interrupted their continuous lovemaking to light more. He had wanted to see her, watch her every wild response, as he moved thickly inside her, over her. Hadn’t he guessed it would be like this? That she would drive him relentlessly, past ail human boundaries and limitations? Hadn’t he guessed that she would be ecstasy as none other could be, as he had not dreamed could exist?
Her face was against his chest, and he smiled when she nuzzled her cheek more fully into his hard planes. Unthinkingly, he dropped a light kiss upon her head. Distracted by her magnificent hair, he began stroking it, from crown to nape. His hand trembled.