The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (2 page)

He must have his labors. He must. She pursued him in the daylight, her vision before his eyes, unless he drove himself hard, punishing his body to control his mind; yet he could not confess such to Father Abbot. Father Abbot could not know the depth of his failure and his sin.

"A worthy goal. Is it working?"

Richard kept his eyes on his lord's hem, his manner submissive, his heart determined. "It is helping."

Father Abbot considered his charge. Richard had come to them with a heavy heart; a year of service had done nothing to lighten it. Only sin pressed upon a man so, sin unconfessed and therefore unforgiven. Nothing could help a man but he confess it.

"You endure buffeting on every side, Brother Richard, yet is the Lord not a mighty tower? You have only to present yourself, a living sacrifice, to Him, your sins confessed, to be saved."

"I have confessed. I do confess," Richard said stiffly.

Yet not all. Clearly, not all. Richard's was a soul in torment, his agony suffered silently and alone. Among the novices he was feared, a constrained and powerful man who held himself aloof. Aloof from God? Nay, he pursued God most fervently, yet he pursued Him with a caged heart. The only one who could slip past the barriers of Richard's defenses was his succubus; an unpleasant truth and one wholly unacceptable.

"I will continue to pray for you, Richard, and what you will do is work in the scriptorium until I give you leave to return to the fields." Father Abbot could see the rebellion in Richard's posture, yet he held his tongue; none could say that Richard lacked self-control. "Let us pray that God will have His way with you, your heart and mind devoted to Him alone."

"Yea, Father, I pray it most earnestly," Richard answered, his head bowed. "As do I, Richard. As do we all."

Chapter 1

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 vulnerability 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 swiftly 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 make her 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 who rode alone was a fool.

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 gray 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.

"And I am Lady Isabel. 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 took 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 momentary contentment until the sound of the men at their prayers drifted to her on the clean spring air. Could she hear, in that mélange 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. Alone, she could hear 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 beleaguered 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 he tried; 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 for 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 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 seemed 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 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."