A Place Beyond Courage (38 page)
Osbert flicked a jaundiced glance at the maids. ‘Yes, my lord. This wasn’t my idea.’ He pointed indignantly to the scattered rose petals.
John bit the inside of his mouth. ‘I know it wasn’t. I couldn’t imagine such a thing would enter your head. Go to. Lady Marshal and I can manage.’ He gave a prompting glance over his right shoulder at Sybilla.
For the briefest instant, she hesitated, but then she caught on and gestured a dismissal to the women. ‘Thank you again,’ she said.
They curtseyed and followed Osbert out of the door. ‘I wish you good rest, my lord, my lady,’ said Gundred, the twinkle in her eye irrepressible, before she whisked out and pulled the door shut. There came the sound of a soft giggle from the other side.
‘I am sorry, my lord,’ Sybilla said. ‘Gundred has a heart of gold and she means well.’
John shook his head and allowed his smile to show. ‘It’s a long time since I heard laughter in the domestic chambers. I do not mind.’
Sybilla removed the chaplet of flowers and plucked out the gold pins securing her veil to her hair. John sat down on the coffer at the foot of the bed, unfastened his sword belt and took off his tunic. Sybilla’s breathing quickened. Now that the moment was approaching, she was apprehensive and uncertain. She had imagined it so many times, but imagination would only take her so far, and anticipation warred with a fear of the unknown.
She took her comb from her trinket box and began drawing it through her hair, and because being afraid always caused her to talk too much, she spoke to fill the silence. ‘I was surprised at how well you dance, my lord. Patrick has two left feet, especially when he’s drunk.’
He gave an amused grunt. ‘But I am not drunk. It is true that some men need to be in their cups to dance, but I have always thought a man should have all his faculties intact for any physical activity.’ There was a slight emphasis on the ‘any’ that made Sybilla flush.
‘Perhaps
you
ought to be drunk,’ he added and suddenly the humour was gone, ‘although it is said that all cats are grey at night.’
you
ought to be drunk,’ he added and suddenly the humour was gone, ‘although it is said that all cats are grey at night.’
Sybilla frowned. ‘I do not understand your meaning, my lord?’
‘Ah, no matter. I know you have been gently raised, but even so, I assume you know your duty.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ She steadied herself. ‘I am not afraid.’
‘Are you not?’
Sybilla shook her head. ‘No, my lord, or no more than is natural on such an occasion. I know you will treat me in a proper manner, because if you do not, my brother will kill you.’
John gave a sour smile. ‘He might die trying, I grant you.’
She paused in her combing. ‘Also you seem to be an honourable man.’
‘Hah, that’s useful for a new wife to think. Not many believe it of me these days, including your brother. Without the Earl of Gloucester’s intervention, I doubt this marriage would have happened.’
‘No, but it has - and I am not my brother.’
His smile remained. ‘Sweetheart, if you were, I’d not be contemplating getting into a bed with you. Don’t imbue me with the qualities the knights have in those songs, because you’ll be disappointed.’
Sybilla tightened her lips and turned away to clean the comb of stray hair before replacing it in its coffer. She didn’t hear John move, but suddenly she felt his closeness. Fear jolted through her, but so did expectancy. She turned round quickly and, in so doing, caught a flicker of trepidation in his expression. With sudden insight she realised she was not the only one concerned about tonight, although he was better at concealing it. The knowledge lessened her anxiety. Stepping into his guard-space, she reached up and with gentle fingers traced the line of the burn scar. She felt him stiffen and knew he was holding himself rigid because otherwise he would have flinched. In the last few years, she had become accustomed to tending wounds and healing battered pride. ‘You say I should not imbue you with the qualities knights have in songs, but you have honour and steadfastness, my lord.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘Yes, it is. Would you gainsay your wife on her wedding day?’ She stroked the ridge of red, angry flesh on the side of his face. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘On her wedding night?’
She saw the apple in his throat move as he swallowed. At the same time her gaze absorbed the strong column of his neck, the unlaced ties on his shirt, moved up again to his face, to that straight, firm mouth. She raised her head invitingly.
He looked wry. ‘You are an innocent,’ he said.
‘Not for much longer.’
For an instant, he hesitated, but no more than that. Then he kissed her and Sybilla did what she had wanted to do all along: she ran her fingers through his hair.
Sybilla gazed up at the embroidered canopy above the bed. She felt wrung out and blissful; a little sore, but less so than she had expected. It had been a revelation on both physical and emotional levels. She felt she had learned a great deal about her new husband during these past moments of intimacy, and even more about herself.
She rolled over on to her stomach and felt the cool clamminess of crushed rose petals under her body. He was lying with his good side towards her, his features softened into lines of contentment. The sheet covered him to his waist, but his arms and chest were exposed, showing smooth, firm muscles, long with relaxation.
She met his heavy glance, smiled and stretched languorously. ‘Oh, that was nice,’ she purred.
He arched his brow, then laughed low in his throat. Turning towards her, he wound a thick strand of her hair around his palm and knuckles. ‘Nice? Is that all you can say?’
Sybilla giggled and moved closer to him. ‘It was beyond me to say anything at all a few moments ago.’ She ran her hand up his arm, enjoying the feel of his bare skin under her fingertips. It was a complete novelty to her, this sensuous touching and stroking. Her life had not been sheltered; she knew what happened in the bedchamber and her nature was such that she was happy to embrace that duty, but she had never imagined anything like this. ‘And you, my lord. Did I please you?’
He gave a lazy smile. ‘It was nice,’ he retorted in kind, then took her hand from his arm to kiss the fingertips and palm. ‘Very nice indeed.’
He left the bed to pour them both wine and, while admiring his body, she wondered about Aline. She must have lain here in this same place, borne his weight in the act of procreation, conceived his children - perhaps the first on her own wedding night. It was a disturbing, slightly uncomfortable thought - like seeing a ghost in the periphery of one’s vision - and she pushed it aside and sat up to take the cup he offered her. Looking at his hand, touching his fingers in the exchange, she remembered their alchemy on her body and gave a small, pleasurable shiver.
‘You must have had many women,’ she said.
He rearranged the covers and adjusted the bolster until his shoulders were comfortably positioned. ‘My share, but not of late, it has to be said.’
‘Because of what happened at Wherwell?’ she dared.
‘Or because you are no longer the King’s marshal, but the Empress’s?’
The way his expression closed showed her that she had struck beneath his shield. ‘Does it matter why not?’ His voice was still quiet, but devoid now of the melting timbre it had held before.
‘Not to me, but perhaps to you, my lord.’
He was silent for a while, and she didn’t interrupt him. Her brother had said she would talk the hindquarters off her new husband and it was true that anxiety made her loquacious, but she had an innate sense of when not to speak.
At last, he sighed, set his cup on the floor at the bedside and turned to her again. ‘When I married you all that mattered was that you were Patrick of Salisbury’s sister and that the match would end the bloodshed between him and me. You could have been a toothless hag and I wouldn’t have cared. The bargain with Patrick was the important part.’
Sybilla gave a brusque nod but was not offended. The subject matter might not be romantic but he was talking to her on the kind of level which Patrick had seldom done, and this she relished. ‘My brother ordered me to agree to the marriage because he could see the advantages and he wanted to be an earl. I understand my worth very well indeed.’ She gave him an impish smile. ‘He doesn’t realise the good he did me though. He still thinks I consented under duress and because of his authority, but I agreed because I wanted this match and it suited my desires as much as his.’
John threw back his head and laughed, but for all the vigour of his response, it had a bitter edge. ‘So you desired a battle-scarred man who was ridding himself of his first wife in order to make a treaty with his neighbour.’
‘I admit I was bothered about you giving up Aline - until I read the clause about no impediment - and I am sorry for her, but as to the rest . . .’ She stroked his arm again, drawn to the supple curve of muscle. ‘Your scars show me that I have a strong and formidable husband who is not afraid to be a man and who will stand his ground. I will be proud to care for every part of you - the scarred and the unscarred - for it will bring me great honour too.’ She put her own goblet down and faced him, a possessive glint in her eyes. ‘At Salisbury I was just Patrick’s sister and put upon. Now I am the marshal’s wife and I have a household and a husband that will be mine to me - mine! Why should I not desire such things?’
He said nothing for a moment, opened his mouth as if to speak, then swallowed, shook his head and took her in his arms instead. He meshed his fingers through her masses of burnished hair, kissing her and kissing her again until she was breathless. His fingertips wrote intimate patterns over her body with the weightless strength of a pinion feather and the sensations made her arch towards him and gasp. Sybilla reasoned that if she derived pleasure from his touch, then surely he must do so from hers. She kissed him back and her own fingers were greedy on his skin, exploring the hard, supple muscles of arms and torso, the lean flanks and firm buttocks. His locked breath, his hiss of pleasure in response told her all that she needed to know and she gave a soft laugh compounded of lust and delight.
He kissed her again and thrust into her full measure. Sybilla was sore, but the pain was overridden by other congested sensations. For a long time he lay within her, his weight braced on his forearms while he continued to nibble and kiss her lips. He kept up a steady, barely moving friction on her pubic bone and Sybilla felt the pressure gathering in her loins, stronger and stronger like an approaching thunderstorm. His kiss deepened, the infinitesimal movements continued. She wanted to cry out, to release the tension but couldn’t because his mouth was over hers. She shuddered and pressed her hand to the hollow of his spine and felt the slickness of sweat; she clung to him. And then the storm was over her and breaking. Her fingers clawed, her body jolted against his and she tore her mouth free to sob aloud. ‘Holy God!’
She was barely aware of him tensing above her, his head going back, the throb of his release and the sound of his own voice muted in his throat as he swallowed.
As she slowly orientated herself, he withdrew from her and lay down again at her side. ‘Enough,’ he laughed. ‘You and your “desires” are going to kill me.’
‘I am sorry, my lord. I was only following your lead.’
He made an amused sound. ‘I’m not sorry, but I am tired.’
Sybilla drew breath to answer him, but then changed her mind. There was a note of finality in his voice suggesting he would not welcome further conversation, and besides, she was weary too, and even more sore. She wondered as she closed her eyes if she had conceived and laid her hand lightly over her belly. So much the better if she had because it would give her position in the household added lustre, Patrick would be delighted at the notion of an heir of Salisbury blood for Ludgershall, and she suspected her new husband would not be displeased either.
Awake in the early morning, John glanced at Sybilla who was still fast asleep, curled round the bedclothes like a squirrel in a drey. Her hair spilled around her shoulders in a rich brown tangle and her face was flushed in slumber. She had dense, dark eyelashes, a sweetly curved mouth and beautiful skin. She was gorgeous. Remembering her explosive howl of ‘Holy God!’ and knowing there was no artifice involved, that it was entirely spontaneous, he was filled with a mixture of tenderness and lust. Once she was more experienced, he suspected that the fillip of her innocence would be replaced by a natural talent and curiosity that would keep him up to the mark for a long time. He had kept the light too and she hadn’t been embarrassed about uncovering herself or worried that taking pleasure was sinning.
Smiling, he moved quietly from the bed to the chamberpot to relieve himself. It was also refreshing that he could talk to her on the same level that he would talk to Benet or Jaston and not have her look as blank as a sheep or wring her hands in fear. Not since Damette had he encountered the enticing combination of femininity and masculine forthrightness in a woman. But she was younger than Damette and less marked by the world. She still had it in her to be moulded, and he was the one who would do that moulding. Glancing over his shoulder again, through the parted bed curtains, he thought that this just might be the marriage he should have had in the first place.
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