The Bridegroom by Darby York

The Bridegroom
    Darby York
     
     
    Haworth Castle
    My Lady’s Solar
     
    I shove my knuckles against my mouth, stifling a
gasp.
    Beneath me in the great hall, brawny serving boys
place a large wooden tub before the hearth. Two more men carrying
buckets of steaming water empty them into the tub and place one
bucket beside to the fire, withdrawing.
    Another serving man sprinkles flakes of
sweet woodruff into the tub and the pleasant vanilla-like aroma
waifs to my nostrils high above. My betrothed divests his clothing.
Firelight provides scant illumination, but ‘tis enough for me to
witness him step over the edge of the tub and sink into the water.
He takes up soap and linen rag and washes himself.
    “Mayhap your wife’s hand will help you on
the morrow,” the serving man says with a wicked chuckle.
    “Be gone, knave!” He waves his soapy hand,
dismissing the man, but seems not to begrudge the remark.
    As he washes himself, he broods, his black eyebrows
furrowing over even blacker eyes. His hair is long, not as custom,
flowing down his back as a maiden’s. Minutes later he stands, water
sloshing down his long limbs. Without a servant, he attends to
himself, lifting the bucket of water. Slowly he splashes the liquid
over his body, letting it rinse the soap from the hairs on his
chest and the muscles of his thighs.
    His penis stands proudly, only tempered slightly by
the cooling water. He throws his head back and stares up at the
stone wall.
    I jump back from the squint, a peephole concealed by
the war shield hanging near the fireplace below. Had he seen me
spying on him? Does he know I am watching him bathe?
    My face aflame, I turn from the secret squint as heat
races up and down my body. Fanning my cheeks with my hand, I slowly
cross the solar. The flagstones, covered with Castilian carpet, are
cold beneath my bare feet.
    After compline, my maid is at rest, and now snores
softly on a pallet at the foot of the tall, canopied bed. I avoid
her and stop at the side of the down-filled mattress piled high
with colorful quilts and warm furs.
    Tomorrow night he will share this bed with me.
    Sir Alan Hawkwood—esquire of the king’s household and
knight, my betrothed, the man who calls me sweetheart and kisses me
as I have never before been kissed—is my family’s enemy.
    I stare at the lord’s bed, aptly aware of its import.
Heirs of Haworth were conceived on yon bed. For centuries, children
carrying the lord’s name came into being there. It cannot be
helped, my fate, but I need not like it. I need not succumb
willingly.
    Renewed by my resolve, I strip off my shift, snuff
out a lone, tallow candle, and pushing back the soft fur coverlets,
crawl into the high bed. Quietly, I let down the linen hangings,
muting the snores of my maid.
    After seeing what I have seen tonight, that personal
place between my thighs begins to soften. Slowly. As if becoming a
warm pool, opening and welcoming.
    I have seen men before. Heavens, I have been raised
with twin brothers. I have watched curs coupling in the bailey. I
know what is expected of me.
    Yet I shut my eyes, suddenly dizzy. I have not seen
before such magnificence as I secretly witnessed tonight, looking
down on that proud stallion that is to be my husband.
    Has he cast a spell on me? Standing—all of him—naked
as a Celtic god? Why else did I ache in the place only he has
stirred? Why else have memories of that kiss in the garden
tormented me, scorching my cheeks and weakening my limbs?
    Lord, help me on the morrow.
     
    I am adorned in my wedding finery—a blue gown made
of silk from Sicily, cut full and long, hanging in folds, and a
surcoat in a deeper shade of blue, made of baldekin and decorated
with images of hounds and harts embroidered into the fabric with
gold thread. The skirt of this outer garment is so long and
generous that it covers my kid leather shoes and forms a small
train when I walk. My hair is unconstrained, flowing in soft, dark
shining waves around my