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The Marriage Bed
By Claudia Dain
Dorchester Publishing
Copyright © 2001
Claudia DainAll right reserved.
ISBN: 0-8439-4933-3
Chapter One
Spring 1155
Her dark hair flew out behind her as she rode, a heavy weight
of glossy mane that the wind lifted easily in her wild ride.
She would have enjoyed it, the freedom, the speed, the
wildness of it; she would have enjoyed it, if not for the
death that had precipitated it.
The road was muddy, thrown and broken by the horse she rode as
swiftly as she could. The trees embracing the road were dark
with recent rain and bright with the shrill green of new
growth. The world shouted its life after a long, frozen sleep
and she could savor none of it. She had to ride. She had to
find refuge in a spring world suddenly thrown back into the
death of winter.
Her father was dead. She was alone and unprotected in a world
that tolerated vulnerablity not at all. She searched for
safety.
"Are we pursued?" she shouted forward to Edmund, her voice
almost lost against the wind.
"Nay, not yet," he said over his shoulder.
She wanted to rest in his assurance, to find even a moment of
safety, but she could not. Edmund was young, only a squire. He
could not talk her into a place of refuge, she could only ride
there, as on wings.
"Should we not ride for town, Lady? The abbey-"
"Nay, we ride for the abbey," she shouted, the wind cold in
her throat, stinging her eyes to tears.
She would find safety in the abbey. The monks, though no
warriors, would bar the gates and keep the world away from
her. None would take her from the abbey.
Richard was at the abbey.
She ducked her head against the wind and sniffed away her
guilt. Aye, guilt; she could admit it to herself. She rode
hard for the abbey in a world gone swifty hostile so that she
could find refuge in the place that harbored Richard.
She was not doing as her father had instructed.
Dying, his voice a whisper against the echoes of eternity, he
had told her to flee. Flee the home she cherished, flee to her
betrothed, to safety, to a marriage that should have taken
place long years since.
Her betrothed was not at the abbey. Richard was at the abbey.
And within her own walls were knights who would eagerly pluck
a maid unprotected and claim her as their own, claiming her
lands as they laid hold of her body.
Crying, she had listened and understood the danger she now
faced. An orphan with property and income was not safe in the
world; she needed a protector, either father or husband. She
had neither as of an hour ago. She had buried her face against
her father's chest and felt his last breath shudder out of
him; Father Langfrid had prayed for her father's soul as it
began its ascent to heaven, urging her to flee, promising to
make the burial arrangements and to handle all until she could
return, married and safe. She had walked calmly from her
father's chamber to the stable and ridden out of Dornei with
all the serenity of death, her panic cloaked as close about
her as armor. Edmund she trusted, though he was a man. Edmund
accompanied her. In an unsafe world, a woman was a fool who
rode alone.
She was no fool, though she did not ride to her betrothed. She
rode to the man she trusted above all others, to the man whom
she knew better than her prayers, to the man who had ridden
away from her and not once come back.
Richard was at the abbey.
Like an answered prayer, the abbey walls rose tall and grey
against the soft afternoon sky. Alone in a field, far from the
town, the abbey of Saint Stephen and Saint Paul was a refuge
of stone in a green, growing world. Monks worked in the fields
and walked in shuffling steps within the high walls that
sheltered them from the cares of the outside world. She wanted
to be sheltered in just the same fashion. The bells rang just
as Edmund announced them to the porter. He had to let them in
before the afternoon prayers of None; she could not wait here,
in the open, so plainly seen and so easily taken.
Edmund was firm, but he was young. The porter hesitated.
"Please, Brother Porter," she said, "It is refuge I seek. Will
you not grant me sanctuary?"
His dark eyes widened at the word and he opened the gate,
admitting them. Isabel rushed in ahead of Edmund and only let
out her stilled breath when the bar was closed against the
heavy wooden gate.
She had mentioned sanctuary; she had not mentioned Richard.
What would a monk understand of reckless and unlawful love?
"My thanks, Brother," she said softly, not allowing her eyes
to search the courtyard for Richard.
"Is it sanctuary you seek, Lady?" Brother Porter asked.
"Yea, Brother-?"
"Anselm, I am called," he answered.
"Yea, Brother Anselm, I seek sanctuary within your walls, if
you will have me."
"Father Abbot alone may grant sanctuary," he said calmly, "but
you are welcome until he may speak with you. It is now None.
Perhaps you will be comfortable in the guest house until the
good father can come to you?"
"Thank you, Brother Anselm," she answered, head bowed as he
led the way to the small stone guest house. Edmund led the
horses to the stable with a quick nod in her direction. She
smiled his release. They were safe now. At least for the time.
Let Edmund go his way.
The guest house was simple and secure, the floors dry and
clean, the door snug; Isabel smiled in contentment until the
sound of the men at their prayers drifted to her on the clean,
spring air. Could she hear, in that melange of male voices,
the deep notes of Richard at his prayers?
"Your pardon, Lady Isabel, I must attend," Brother Anselm
said, backing out with a shy smile and closing the door behind
him. She nodded his dismissal as she had Edmund's. Alone, she
listened to the rising voices, deep and resonant, voicing
their prayers to God.
Which was what she should be doing instead of listening for
the voice of a man forbidden to her.
Isabel dropped to her knees, glad for the cold, uneven stone
floor, glad for the chill that encased her damp feet, glad for
the distraction from the voices raised in holy anthem just
within the courtyard. God must be met within the bounds of
sacred prayer with a whole and undivided heart and with a soul
yearning for perfection. She had neither. Yet, she prayed.
Perhaps God would hear the prayer of a cold and beleagured
orphan, even as He would not heed the prayer of a disobedient
and wayward woman.
For such she was, to love a man not her betrothed.
To love a man who had betrothed himself to God.
Richard.
Why could it not be Richard who had been chosen for her while
she lay within her swaddling? The answer was clear as spring
rain; Richard was not the eldest. Her father, and his, would
not have made such a bargain. And, as much as she yearned for
Richard, neither would she. She was the sole heir to Dornei,
Wiselei, and Turvestone. Her dower lands were Braccan and
Hilesdun. She was a woman well-propertied. Her earthly
function was to marry well and produce heirs who would
strengthen and increase what had already been achieved.
Richard would inherit nothing. He was third born and destined
to make his own way. He had made it in a monastery.
It had not been expected. He had done well in his knightly
training, excelling at all to which he laid his hand with
effortless ease; he could have achieved something on his own,
by his own hand and with his own sword. He had cast all down
and walked into the Abbey of Saint Stephen and Saint Paul
without looking back. Without coming back.
It should not matter. She was betrothed to Hubert. She was
beyond ripe for marriage. But she had not ridden to Hubert.
She had ridden to Richard.
She was unnatural in her desires, this she knew. She needed to
repent, this she also knew. But instead of repentance and
tears, there was the knowledge that Richard was near. Richard
was close. She might see him if she went in to worship. Isabel
kept her knees firmly on the uneven floor. She needed
repentance more than she needed Richard, none needed to tell
her that, yet Richard was her hunger.
Shame swelled to wash over her unnatural desires. Shame
retreated. Her desires remained.
"Saint Stephen, I am a sinner, as black of heart as Judas,
betraying my lord Hubert with thoughts of another. In your
mercy, give me the strength to ..."
To go to Hubert? She did not dare pray for that in fear that
it would be given. She did not want the strength to leave
Richard. Stephen had endured a stoning, dying as the first
martyr of Christendom; she refused to prayerfully ask for the
strength of will to excise Richard from her heart. She was a
very poor sort of Christian.
"Give me ... give me Richard, if it may be," she burst out,
ashamed and exhilarated at once.
The monks ceased their chant in that moment and the silence
that followed was fuller for the void. In such silence, her
prayer seemed to fill the room, expanding until the weight of
it felt to crush her soul.
"But only in Your will," she added quickly into the silence,
her voice small and constricted. Nothing at all like the voice
in which she had demanded Richard of the Most High God.
She was, in truth, a very poor sort of Christian and most in
need of repentance.
A knock, definite yet delicate, and then Abbot Godric entered.
She was still on her knees. He would think her pious when she
was merely desperate. But perhaps he would tell Richard he had
seen her on her knees in prayer and Richard would think her
pious. That would please Richard, if he believed. Richard knew
her very well and, most like, would not believe.
She rose to her feet quickly and bowed before the Abbot.
"Thank you, Abbot Godric, for showing me the hospitality of
your house."
"You are always welcome, Lady Isabel, but Brother Anselm said
you came seeking sanctuary. What is amiss at Dornei?"
Isabel turned her eyes to the floor, studying the thick hem of
his robe as she spoke. "All is amiss at Dornei. My father died
this day. He bade me find a place of safety for I am now a
woman of great worth and much would be risked to gain what I
hold."
She could feel the prick of tears and blinked them away,
raising her eyes to look into the sympathetic gaze of the man
before her. He was of Saxon blood, yet it did not speak
against him. There was a power in him that few men possessed.
She supposed it was the power of the Spirit of God since Saxon
power was a thing long past. His eyes were warmest brown and
his hair warm chestnut lined with white and he looked to have
a care only for others, his own woes seen to by his Savior and
Lord. Isabel knew she did not have the same look since her
woes were the result of a rebellious spirit and a stubborn
heart.
"Poor child. But why did your father direct you here? We will
surely protect you, with God's provision, but would you not
have been better served to make for Hubert? He will surely be
your most certain protection."
"He did not direct me here," she said with all truth, "yet
your house was the closest sanctuary and I needed the comfort
of that, if nothing else."
She did not mention Richard.
"Nothing else? Do not tell me that you did not seek the
comfort of communal prayer for your father. You know that he
will be prayed for by all here and with great heart. He shall
be missed."
"Thank you," she said softly. It was a great gift; their
prayers would hasten his soul to heaven.
"A message will be sent to Hubert, telling him of your need. I
will write it myself and see it sent within the hour. You
shall be married here, if it suits your betrothed, and then
all will be settled again. I know that God will not find it
amiss to have you married quickly, even on the cusp of your
father's death. You must be protected from men who would steal
what they cannot lawfully claim."
Godric laid a hand upon her arm but briefly, in comfort, and
then turned to go. Edmund stood in the open doorway, his
expression open and reposed, as was his way. There had been
nothing untoward in Godric's touch, the door to the guest
house had been left open to prevent just such speculation, and
Edmund's calm witness bore the wisdom of the practice.
"Edmund, it is good to see you. And good to see that you have
done your duty by your lady. She was well served in choosing
you as her escort to our house."
"Thank you, Abbot Godric," Edmund answered. "We had safe
journey."
"God be praised for that. He watches most diligently after the
widows and orphans of this world. But I have news of your
brother, Peter."
"He is well?" Edmund asked eagerly.
"Most assuredly. He has been knighted by Baron Thomas and has
pledged his fealty. I am told he walks well in his spurs."
"He should, he practiced often enough while yet a boy," Edmund
laughed. "It is good news. I would that you could tell him of
my own dubbing, when a messenger passes through the abbey, but
it must wait apace. I am close. He shall not outstrip me. You
may pass that on if the occasion suits."
Isabel dropped her head in sudden shame. Edmund was past due
for his spurs; her father should have seen it done, but he had
fallen into a weakened state so quickly that much was left
undone, her own wedding the surest proof of that. He had
pressed for her to marry for months, yet she had always had a
ready and compelling reason why they should delay. First,
because she was newly home from her fostering and wanted to
enjoy Dornei before becoming the bride of Warefeld, then
because her father's wife, Ida, had fallen ill and needed the
care only a daughter could give. Then because Ida had died and
she would not leave her father, Bernard, alone in his grief.
Finally, because her father had taken ill himself and there
was none to push her from his side. And so now. She had never
mentioned Richard as the cause of her continued delay, but did
not God see the heart and was she not guilty of disobedience?
She was not married, certain proof of her silent rebellion.
Still, Edmund must win his spurs and only his lord could see
it done. If she had gone to Hubert ... but she had not gone to
Hubert. She had run to Richard and Richard could confer the
buffet on no one. Richard had cast his own spurs, the symbol
of his knighthood, aside in favor of a cowl.
"I shall," answered Abbot Godric. "Your day will come," he
assured.
Yea, when Hubert came to the abbey to fetch her ... nay, he
would come to marry her. Edmund would win his spurs and she
would win a husband she did not want. Unless God answered her
impossible prayer, but God did not answer prayers rooted in
disobedience and willfulness, no matter how heartfelt.
"Father Abbot!" Brother Anselm said, entering the room in a
flurry of black wool. "Father! A message most urgent."
"Hold, Brother Anselm," Godric soothed. "A message can wait
until we are alone."
"But Abbot Godric," Anselm said, trying for control, "the
message concerns the Lady Isabel."
"Speak then, Brother," Godric said.
"Lord Robert sends word that Lord Hubert, the lady's
betrothed, is dead."
He said more; she could hear the buzzing of his voice
somewhere beyond her comprehension, but she could not stay to
hear the rest. She had prayed to be released from Hubert and,
as effortlessly as watching a petal fall to earth, Hubert had
died. Such was the fruit of her careless and selfish prayer.
In a grey and dim rush, Isabel fell in a swoon to lay heavily
upon the cold stone floor.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Marriage Bed
by Claudia Dain
Copyright © 2001 by Claudia Dain .
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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