him.
“I know how hard it must be for you, husband,” she whispered against the supple, weather-worn skin of his cheek. “I ache to lie with you again, and I am filled with such guilt that I cannot be a wife to you.”
“Hush! What folly is this?” He sounded genuinely angry, and she shrank from this most unusual manifestation. “You may not speak so, Gwendoline. You are all the wife I wish for, and I will not hear you say otherwise.”
“Nevertheless . . .” She steeled herself to say what she had long lacked the courage to say. “I would wish that you ease yourself in the way that men must. You must take a mistress—”
“Be silent!” he interrupted her, horrified by her words, yet also horrified by the deep inner response he had to them. He was a young, virile man, accustomed to working his body hard and easing it with the same vigor, and the long months of chastity had tried him sorely, although he had done all he could to hide this from his suffering wife.
“If you will not take a leman,” she persisted, her voice low, anguished with her own humiliation, “then you must visit the harlots in the stews.”
“I have said I will not hear you talk in this wise,” he said harshly, “and you would do well to cease this instant.” But even as he spoke so harshly, he took her in his arms, gentling her, wiping the tears from her cheeks with a smudging thumb. “Hush now, sweetheart, hushnow. ’Tis no great matter for me. ’Tis nothing beside your sufferings.”
“My sufferings are not so very great.” She gave him a watery smile. “I could endure them easily enough if it were not for the pain they cause you. But I pray daily with Father Benedict, and there is a woman in the village come from Shrewsbury who has most marvelous powers, Elfrida tells me. I will take counsel of her on the morrow.”
Guy could place no faith in prayer or the miraculous powers of an itinerant dame, but he would not say so. Instead, he smiled and kissed his wife again. “Then you will soon be well. Let us go back to the house. The children will be returning, and I must take that misbegotten little rogue to her sire.” He spoke with a great softness, and his lady smiled with a tinge of sorrow. He was a man who loved children . . . a man who should have children of his own. But she would never bear him any.
M AGDALEN HAD HAD a morning of unalloyed joy. May Day in the border fortress had tended to pass with little ceremony. There had been Maypoles in the surrounding villages, but there had been no one to take the child to participate in the revelry. Erin, her maidservant who had come with her from Bellair, had told her what went on in the village of her own childhood, and this morning’s experiences exactly matched those oft-told tales to which Magdalen had listened with aching envy. Barefoot, garlanded with primroses, bluebells, marigolds, and cowslip, they had danced around the Maypole, been chased across the dew-wet fields by the boys and youths of both village and manor while a troop of itinerant minstrels had played and sung the ancient, cheerfully ribald songs of virginity about to be lost.
The manor children were now returning home, laughing and singing, their arms filled with May branches of apple and cherry blossom to fill the greathall of the manor. Magdalen cast Edmund covert glances from beneath her lashes. He had made a great point of catching her in the chase and an even greater play of kissing her soundly. She was not at all sure whether the experience had been pleasant, but Edmund was looking very pleased with himself, and everyone had laughed and cheered him on heartily. Her linen gown, carefully chosen for the journey to the city, was grass-stained and rumpled now, her hair escaped from its braids, the ribbons on her plaits hanging loose. But they were all in similar state, and there was no fear in the de Gervais household that such disarray would bring censure.
It had taken her no more than a day or
“I know how hard it must be for you, husband,” she whispered against the supple, weather-worn skin of his cheek. “I ache to lie with you again, and I am filled with such guilt that I cannot be a wife to you.”
“Hush! What folly is this?” He sounded genuinely angry, and she shrank from this most unusual manifestation. “You may not speak so, Gwendoline. You are all the wife I wish for, and I will not hear you say otherwise.”
“Nevertheless . . .” She steeled herself to say what she had long lacked the courage to say. “I would wish that you ease yourself in the way that men must. You must take a mistress—”
“Be silent!” he interrupted her, horrified by her words, yet also horrified by the deep inner response he had to them. He was a young, virile man, accustomed to working his body hard and easing it with the same vigor, and the long months of chastity had tried him sorely, although he had done all he could to hide this from his suffering wife.
“If you will not take a leman,” she persisted, her voice low, anguished with her own humiliation, “then you must visit the harlots in the stews.”
“I have said I will not hear you talk in this wise,” he said harshly, “and you would do well to cease this instant.” But even as he spoke so harshly, he took her in his arms, gentling her, wiping the tears from her cheeks with a smudging thumb. “Hush now, sweetheart, hushnow. ’Tis no great matter for me. ’Tis nothing beside your sufferings.”
“My sufferings are not so very great.” She gave him a watery smile. “I could endure them easily enough if it were not for the pain they cause you. But I pray daily with Father Benedict, and there is a woman in the village come from Shrewsbury who has most marvelous powers, Elfrida tells me. I will take counsel of her on the morrow.”
Guy could place no faith in prayer or the miraculous powers of an itinerant dame, but he would not say so. Instead, he smiled and kissed his wife again. “Then you will soon be well. Let us go back to the house. The children will be returning, and I must take that misbegotten little rogue to her sire.” He spoke with a great softness, and his lady smiled with a tinge of sorrow. He was a man who loved children . . . a man who should have children of his own. But she would never bear him any.
M AGDALEN HAD HAD a morning of unalloyed joy. May Day in the border fortress had tended to pass with little ceremony. There had been Maypoles in the surrounding villages, but there had been no one to take the child to participate in the revelry. Erin, her maidservant who had come with her from Bellair, had told her what went on in the village of her own childhood, and this morning’s experiences exactly matched those oft-told tales to which Magdalen had listened with aching envy. Barefoot, garlanded with primroses, bluebells, marigolds, and cowslip, they had danced around the Maypole, been chased across the dew-wet fields by the boys and youths of both village and manor while a troop of itinerant minstrels had played and sung the ancient, cheerfully ribald songs of virginity about to be lost.
The manor children were now returning home, laughing and singing, their arms filled with May branches of apple and cherry blossom to fill the greathall of the manor. Magdalen cast Edmund covert glances from beneath her lashes. He had made a great point of catching her in the chase and an even greater play of kissing her soundly. She was not at all sure whether the experience had been pleasant, but Edmund was looking very pleased with himself, and everyone had laughed and cheered him on heartily. Her linen gown, carefully chosen for the journey to the city, was grass-stained and rumpled now, her hair escaped from its braids, the ribbons on her plaits hanging loose. But they were all in similar state, and there was no fear in the de Gervais household that such disarray would bring censure.
It had taken her no more than a day or
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