The Bridegroom
by
Darby York
Copyright © 2011, Darby York
Cover art design by Stella Price
Digital ISBN: 9781935817567
Published by Turquoise Morning Press for Smashwords
Turquoise Morning, LLC
Turquoise Morning, LLC
P.O. Box 43958
Louisville, KY 40253-0958
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The Bridegroom
Medieval life is hard for everyone, especially for noble women forced to marry their enemies. Yet even then women longed for love and fulfillment. Can a reluctant bride find true happiness in an arranged marriage?
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 face and down my back to my knees.
When my stomach complains loudly I wonder if others hear. I glance at those standing near and place a hand against the folds of my surcoat, as if that gesture will ease my hunger pangs. I have not broken my fast. Now, with heat suffusing my face, I feel lightheaded.
Servants have prepared the broad open space of the upper-story hall for the wedding. Rough timber floors have been swept clean, strewn with fresh rushes and sprinkled with dried herbs—spicy basil, sweet-smelling balm and lavender, and refreshing hyssop. Tallow candles impaled on iron candlesticks flicker, casting splotches of stark light that fail to brighten the cavernous hall or alleviate the sudden chill in the October air. I sidle nearer to the roaring fire.
“He comes, my lady,” my maid whispers.