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  For a moment Isabelle wasn’t certain her legs would function as they should, but then she curtsied politely to him, and turning about, walked across the hall, through the door into her chamber.

  The room was dark. Carefully, she wended her way around the pallet and the trundle where her servant, Agneatha, and her mother’s, Ida, were snoring in deep sleep. Since her mother had moved from the solar, Isabelle had been forced to share her bed with her. She had had absolutely no privacy. It might be almost worth marrying Hugh Fauconier to obtain her portion of the lord’s chamber, which was certainly much larger, and far less crowded than this room was now. Reaching the unoccupied side of the bed, she sat down a moment to draw off the soft shoes she wore in the house. Standing again, she undid her belt, laying it aside on a stool by the bed. Next she removed her tunic and her skirt, placing them atop the belt, then climbed into bed next to her parent.

  “I will marry him,” she said low to her mother, whom she sensed was not yet asleep.

  “Why?” Alette asked, curious. “Did he beat you in chess, and thereby win your respect, Isabelle?”

  “I won the first game, he the second. We talked. He will not be like Father, madame. He has agreed to sign a paper. He wants me to learn to read and to write. The priest will see to it,” the girl told her. “There is, after all, as you have said, no choice. The king has commanded, and Hugh Fauconier is the king’s man. Can I show less loyalty?”

  Alette could feel the tension draining from her body. “When?” she asked her daughter. “Did he say when we will celebrate the marriage?”

  Isabelle shrugged in the darkness. “Let him decide, madame. It makes no difference to me.” She rolled onto her side, indicating to her mother that their conversation was over.

  Relief poured over the older woman. She wondered exactly what it was that had caused Isabelle to cease her opposition to the king’s command. He has agreed to sign a paper. What on earth had Isabelle meant by that? Alette wondered. What could a paper have to do with convincing her unruly daughter to cooperate? Blessed Mother! She was going to have to speak to Isabelle about … about … it. Could she let the girl go to her marriage without some knowledge of what was to come? Of what was expected of her?

  Alette thought back to her own wedding night, and she shuddered. Robert de Manneville had been a virtual stranger; a neighbor of her uncle. She had seen him perhaps half a dozen times in her life. He was old enough to be her father, and he had a beautiful, proud wife who was the envy of every man of rank for twenty miles around. Then her aunt mentioned one day that poor Sieur Robert had suddenly been widowed. Several months afterward her uncle came to her and told her that their neighbor needed a new wife. He was willing to accept Alette despite her small dower.

  “But why me, Uncle Hubert?” she had innocently asked. “Surely Sieur Robert can find a greater name to wed with than Alette d’Aumont.”

  “Indeed,” her uncle had agreed, “but he wants a wife now. Those two unruly sons of his need a mother. Sieur Robert will want other children as well, for the lady Sibylle was in delicate health for many years. You’re a good strong girl, Alette. You’ll suit him well.”

  There had been nothing more left to say. She was certainly given no choice. What she did not know was that no other family would have Robert de Manneville marry one of their daughters. He had a fierce temper. He had also adored his late wife. No woman following in Sibylle de Manneville’s footsteps would suit him, be she the most beautiful girl, the wealthiest heiress. Hubert d’Aumont, however, saw a chance to ally his family with a better family. He would have given de Manneville his own unmarried daughter, but she was only ten, not old enough yet to be mounted or produce children. His niece was all he had. He gladly sacrificed her to his ambition.

  In the hour before she was brought before the priest to wed Robert de Manneville, her aunt Elise came to her. “I wanted to tell you all that you would need to know to please your lord in your bed sport,” she began, “but Sieur Robert has forbidden me, saying he will school you himself. Your uncle cravenly agreed with him, but I think them wrong. Still, if I speak to you of what you must know, Sieur Robert might sense it and be displeased. Then your uncle will beat me, Alette. I will tell you this only. Yield to your husband in all things, my child. Do not defy him in any manner. He is a hard man, and had the choice been mine, ma petite, I should not have given you to him.”

  With these rather frightening words ringing in her ears, Alette d’Aumont was wed to Robert de Manneville. Her uncle, she knew, had gone into debt to pay for the feast that followed. When it was over, she was mounted before her husband on his huge warhorse so that they might ride across the fields to his home. It was during that ride she was given a taste of what was to come. Guiding his mount with his sinewy thighs, Robert de Manneville fondled his trembling bride’s round little breasts as they rode. He had had a great deal of wine to drink, but he was not drunk. One hand crept up her leg beneath her skirts.

  “Have you ever had your petite bijou tweaked, Alette?” he asked her, turning her face to place a wet kiss upon her lips.

  She looked at him dumbly, not having any idea of what he meant. “Mon seigneur?” Then she gasped as the tip of his finger began to rub at a particularly sensitive spot of flesh she hadn’t been aware she possessed. She squirmed, but he snarled an order for her to remain still. It was virtually impossible, although she struggled to obey him. Then, to her further shock, he pushed a single, thick finger into her body. Terrified, she began to sob as the finger moved deeper inside of her, stopping suddenly.

  “Good!” he said as if to himself. “You are intact. Your uncle did not lie to me. I haven’t had a woman since my Sibylle died, Alette. My juices have been pent up these last months, and I’ll not wait another moment to satisfy myself.” He drew his big horse to a stop in a stand of trees. “Now do exactly what I tell you, Alette,” he said as he lifted her from his lap. “Pull up your skirts, and straddle the horse as I set you before me,” and when she had obeyed him, he continued, “Now lean forward, my petite, as far as you can.”

  She complied, but said as she did, “I cannot keep my backside from lifting up, monseigneur. If anyone should come along, I would be shamed.”

  “Be patient, ma petite,” he said in an almost soothing voice, and he ran his hands over the milky flesh so sweetly displayed. Drawing his own ornate tunic up, he fumbled for his manhood, pulling it from his drawers. It was hard, and rampant. Raising himself slightly in his stirrups, he drew the girl back toward him, a hand upon her belly to steady her, his other hand seeking the proper passage in which to insert his raging weapon.

  She felt it. She felt it pushing into the passage his finger had but lately occupied, but whatever it was, it was bigger. Alette whimpered, half afraid, and with the beginnings of pain. “You are hurting me,” she sobbed to him. “Please do not hurt me!”

  His fingers now dug into the tender flesh of her slender hips. Forcing her forward again, he thrust hard once. She screamed. Twice. She pleaded. And finally a third time while she shrieked with pain. “Be silent, you little bitch,” he snarled. “The pain will ease, and your cries are spoiling my pleasure.” He pumped her hard, finally shuddering, and sighing gustily. “Ahhhhh! Aye, that will do until we get home, ma petite. I intend to have you several times tonight.” Pulling her skirts back, he lifted her into her former position, kicking his mount forward to continue their journey.

  Silent tears poured down Alette’s face. Why had her aunt not warned her of this horror? The passage in her body he had so cruelly invaded ached terribly. She struggled to regain her composure, for they would soon be at her new home. She didn’t want to embarrass either her husband or herself. When they arrived, he dismounted first, lifting her down, introducing her to his sons, his servants. Alette greeted them all politely, kissing her stepsons, who glared in unfriendly fashion at her. She could barely stand. She was in dreadful pain, but she walked proudly into the Great Hall and stood accepting the toasts of de Manneville
’s staff. Then she was escorted to her chamber, where Ida was already waiting.

  “I will attend to myself, Ida,” she said quietly, dismissing her serving woman lest she discover her shame. Alette quickly undressed, and was mortified to find her chemise stained with bright red blood. Was her flow upon her? The blood had run down her thighs. She felt so raw where he had used her. Before she might wash, however, the door to the chamber opened and Robert de Manneville entered.

  Seeing the bloody garment, the stains upon her legs, he grinned, pleased. “I did a good job of deflowering you, ma petite,” he said, and began pulling off his clothing.

  The hours that followed were a horror in her memory. Her husband seemed insatiable in his lust for her. By morning she thought herself half dead, and her fair body was covered with scratches and bruises. Each night that came after was a repeat of the first, until finally she was able to tell him that she was with child.

  Isabelle was born eleven months after their marriage. They were living at Langston then, and when she had healed from the birth, her husband, try as he might, was unable to function with her as he once had. It was, Alette recalled, the answer to her prayers. After that, however, he became more abusive toward her, but she knew she should rather suffer his beatings than be at the mercy of his lust ever again. It was all she knew of the physical relationship between men and women.

  How could she explain to her daughter the pain, the degradation, the horror of the marital act? Isabelle was rebellious enough. If she knew what was in store for her, she would change her mind. What would happen to them then? No. Every woman must suffer a man’s lust. Isabelle would be no different. She would tell Isabelle nothing. Nothing!

  Chapter 4

  It was yet dark in the Great Hall of Langston as Father Bernard prepared for the mass. Several young female serfs worked at reviving the fires in the fireplaces. Quietly the priest set out the small jeweled crucifix he always carried with him on such journeys, drawing it forth from its velvet bag, setting it reverently upon the high board which would serve as the altar. The young boy delegated to serve him placed two silver candlesticks on either side of the crucifix, affixing pure beeswax tapers into each, grinning delightedly at the priest’s smiling nod of approval.

  There is so much to be done here, Father Bernard thought as he looked about the hall. He had already performed several marriages, and baptized any number of babies. He had even seen off two old souls, easing their passage from this world into the next with the last rites of the Church, and had blessed the graves of those who had died over the last few years without benefit of clergy.

  Hugh had promised to build a church, and the priest knew the young man would keep his word. Langston needed a church. The keep needed a chapel. And they all needed a priest. He had wanted to stay here from the moment he had seen the place. The king did not need him. He was but one of many royal chaplains, but the people of Langston needed him. It would not be a rich living, he knew, but they really needed him here. He would speak to Hugh.

  “You look almost grim, good father,” the subject of his thoughts said, startling him. “Is everything aright?”

  Father Bernard turned to face Hugh Fauconier. “You need me here!” he told the younger man, voicing aloud his thoughts.

  “You would remain on this small holding? I would be right glad of it, Father Bernard, but I am no great lord, nor likely to be one,” Hugh said. “And will the king allow it?”

  “King Henry has a dozen nameless priests just like me in his service,” Father Bernard said, “and two dozen more clamoring to be given a place at his court. If you ask him, my lord, I know he will release me from his service that I may stay at Langston, where I may assuredly serve God better. I am of no importance to the king.”

  “Certainly we must ask him,” Hugh replied with a slow smile. Then he was all business. “I have promised Langston a church. We will build it together, good father. You may live here in the keep, or have your own house. You will have the church’s portion of rents and goods for yourself. For now I cannot promise to give you anything but food and shelter until I have better learned the condition of this manor.”

  The priest nodded. “It is fair, my lord,” he said.

  The Langston folk were now coming into the hall for the mass. Rolf appeared, and Alette, Isabelle, and their women came into the Great Hall from their chamber. The lad assisting the priest lit the candles upon the makeshift altar, and the service began. When it was concluded, and the priest had blessed the congregation, Hugh spoke before they might all depart for their day’s tasks.

  “Good father, a moment, I pray you. Last night the lady Isabelle agreed to become my wife. I would have you perform the ceremony now.”

  “My lord!” Alette was taken aback. This was no way for such a momentous occasion to be celebrated. She looked to her daughter, as did everyone else in the hall.

  Isabelle of Langston, however, had locked her gaze onto that of Hugh Fauconier. She was surprised by his action, yet the challenge in those smoky silver-blue eyes was irresistible. And the faint, almost imperceptible smile touching the corners of his mouth made it very clear that he knew it. It was just a trifle irritating that he taunt her so smugly, and silently. She ought to fly into a rage, terrifying them all, but she did not.

  With a vanity she had not suspected that she had, she gazed at her attire. She was wearing a bright green tunic with gold thread embroidery over an indigo-blue skirt. The tunic was belted at the waistline, with a silk belt worked with gold threads. Her thick hair was plaited into a single long braid, as she always wore it. It only took her a moment or so to assess her appearance. Looking back at Hugh, she said, “I think it an excellent idea we marry now, my lord, at the beginning of the day. Then we may get about our work without interruption.”

  With a grin he was unable to restrain, he held out his hand to her, drawing her to him as she took it. “You have heard my lady, good father. Let us get on with it, and the congregation here may witness the event, in honor of which I shall suspend the afternoon’s labor.”

  “Where is my paper?” Isabelle demanded suddenly of him.

  “I shall have the priest write it after we have received the sacrament of marriage, ma Belle. Do you trust me to honor my word?”

  “I do, my lord,” she answered him.

  Then before her stunned parent and the others, Isabelle of Langston was joined in marriage to Hugh Fauconier, as ordered by King Henry and agreed to by both parties involved.

  “You may kiss the bride, my lord,” Father Bernard said.

  She expected him to brush her lips lightly, as he had the night before. Instead, however, Hugh pulled Belle into his embrace, kissing her hard upon her mouth to the lusty cheers of the onlookers. When he set her back upon her feet, her surprise was evident.

  “Now, my lady wife,” he said calmly, “shall we break our fast?”

  “Aye, my lord husband,” she replied, matching his poise.

  “Your wedding day should have been something special,” Alette chided her daughter as they sat eating. “Married after the mass without any warning! Do you call this meal a feast? Bread and cheese and wine? Oh, Isabelle! Why did you not refuse him so that it might have been done properly? No one would have faulted you in such a matter.”

  “It did not matter to me,” Isabelle replied. “The king ordered the marriage. You said I had no other choice but to obey. If my lord sought to formalize our match this morning, I saw no cause to object.”

  Alette was astounded by her daughter’s attitude, but then she had to admit to herself that Belle had always shown a lack of propriety. She should not have been surprised by such outrageous behavior.

  “For whom would you have arranged this proper wedding, madame?” her daughter said scornfully. “Our only relations are in Normandy. We do not know our neighbors, for the land all around us is in the possession of a great lord who is rarely here. The marriage was well-celebrated, and witnessed in the presence of our own Langston folk. I
feel no lack.”

  “A bride cake,” Alette said weakly. “There should have been a sugar cake, and a minstrel to make music. You will have no beautiful memories. A woman should have beautiful memories of her wedding day.”

  “Do you?” Isabelle asked her mother.

  Alette grew pale, but then she said, “I was surrounded by my family, such as they were. There was wine and cake. Then your father took me up on his horse, riding across the fields to Manneville. That was my wedding day. What will you have to remember? A hurried, sudden ceremony after the morning mass! And cheese!” She began to cry.

  “Chère madame,” Hugh interrupted, for he had heard it all, “I know that you must be disappointed, but we shall make up for our lack of display this day when our first child is born. Then will be a grand celebration, and I shall entrust it all to you.” He took her hand in his and kissed it. “Do not weep now.”

  Alette looked at Hugh through wet, spiky dark blond lashes, thinking after all that her daughter was fortunate in her plain-faced kindly bridegroom. She managed a tiny smile to reassure him, retrieving her hand as she said, “Tu es bien gentil, monseigneur.”

  “It is not a bad feast, madame,” Isabelle said in an attempt to emulate her husband’s kindness, even if she thought her mother silly and weak as water. “The bread is still warm from the ovens, and it is a new wheel of cheese this morning.”

  “Oh, Belle!” her mother said in that tone she seemed to reserve for her daughter alone.

  Hugh stood up, saying to his new wife, “I would that you rode with us this morning, ma Belle. We need to know which fields are to lie fallow come the spring. And Lent is almost upon us. Who supplies the fish we will need? Our own people cannot fish enough, can they?”