A Stern Lord for My Lady Read online

  On one such occasion, the queen chose to speak to Alicia about the events, which would take place on the morrow.

  “This tournament. It is a good thing,” Queen Eleanor mused. “Did you see my son Henry’s face light with pleasure upon it? Unlike his father, my son loves jousting and he is almost certain to win the tournament.”

  Alicia nodded, knowing it was so. At seventeen, Young Henry had already showed his prowess in tournaments, and was certain to win even more glory as he advanced in age.

  “I wonder who would win the joust I wagered upon with my husband. Do you think it will be Sir Erec or your own husband in tomorrow’s joust?”

  Alicia shrugged, feeling worry rise in her chest. Both her husband and Sir Erec were worthy knights, and, even if he was lither of form, Sir Erec was a redoubtable tourneyer. In truth, she did not know which of the two knights would best the other, and she had begun to worry her husband’s pride and standing would take a great blow if the outcome was not the one he desired. The king was urging him to win and he would be angered if Bertran did not prove himself the victor. Besides, she’d come to see how her husband clenched his fists whenever Sir Erec’s name was mentioned. She avoided speaking that name in his presence, because she saw he had become jealous of her former suitor. She wished she were able to tell him he had even less cause for his jealousy than he thought, yet Sir Erec had sworn her to secrecy and she’d never betrayed her word.

  “I do not know, my queen. I hope it will be my husband,” Alicia muttered with a sigh.

  Eleanor sighed in return.

  “It would give me great satisfaction if it were Sir Erec, just to see the smirk wiped off my royal husband’s arrogant face. Yet perchance you are right. It is better your husband should win. Henry will be appeased. And he won’t begrudge my son’s own glory in the rest of the tournament.”

  Alicia nodded, understanding that, once again, Eleanor was proving herself a wise politician. She saw now that Eleanor had deftly manoeuvred Henry into giving a tournament to make her son shine in front of all to see, and the wager concerning her own husband and Sir Erec had been just a clever ploy. Henry despised tournaments, and the fact he’d been forced to give one must still chafe. So she prayed her husband would win the joust with Sir Erec that would take place on the very morrow. She sensed that much depended on it.

  That night at home, she had occasion to see her husband was tenser than usual. He was not sharp with her, because it was not his manner to behave so, yet she saw the taut line of his mouth and the set look in his eyes. He seemed far away, and Alicia guessed he was probably dwelling upon tomorrow’s events. She pretended not to notice his mood, and let him have his peace, because she sensed it was peace and a distance from her that he needed at this time.

  So she did not look at him with invitation in her eyes, nor attempt to touch him teasingly or press herself against him when they were finally alone, as had become her habit in the last days. Nor did she engage him in talk as she usually did. She kept her distance instead, just busying herself with righting things about their chamber and with ordering their garments in one of the chests.

  She was mightily surprised when she at last sensed her husband’s hand upon her shoulder from behind. She’d thought him still occupied with his goblet of wine and his own thoughts. She turned to face him, and found him grim and frowning upon her.

  “You’ve not even glanced upon me this night, my lady,” he muttered, and his voice sounded displeased.

  “I thought to leave you your peace. The tournament’s tomorrow,” Alicia answered him an earnest.

  It was the first time in their marriage that he was speaking so grimly to her. He was usually of good humour whenever he addressed her. But she understood he was entitled to feel grim tonight. He did not have an easy task ahead of him tomorrow.

  “You have been cold to me,” he said and his voice sounded sharp. “Perchance you’re pining for another?”

  The name of Erec de Jarnac remained unspoken between them. Alicia nearly opened her mouth to tell Bertran that Erec had in mind a vastly different kind of lover and not her, yet it did not feel fair to impart this secret to him, especially since Bertran would fight this man tomorrow. It was not her place to interfere in the fight in any way. Besides, it would be wrong to break a word she’d given.

  She touched her husband’s long lashes in a caress meant to brush off the jealousy that was smouldering there.

  “Peace, husband, I burn only for you!” she whispered, letting him hear the truth in her voice.

  He glanced at her searchingly, as if to make sure she spoke true. But then, all of a sudden, he closed the lid of the chest that she’d been setting to rights, and he hoisted her on it, impatiently moving her skirts aside and making quick work of parting her thighs.

  Soon he was pulling his own garments aside, letting her see his engorged cock. “Why, here?” she asked in sheer surprise, understanding he meant to plunge into her swiftly.

  Yet she already felt wet and ready just by glancing upon his rigid manhood, and she heard his quick grunt of satisfaction as he brought his hand between her legs and could feel she was already gushing for his thrust. And thrust into her he did, with a vengeance that nearly took her breath away and made her swoon with pleasure. He loved her very deep, and punishingly, and Alicia understood she would feel sore after this kind of loving, yet she revelled in every moment of it, and in the way he possessively whispered as he was thrusting in and out of her.

  “Mine. You are mine, my lady. Fully mine!”

  “Aye!”

  She cried her full acquiescence, as rapture made her sex convulsively clench around the hard shaft that was going in and out of her at a punishing rate. She’d nearly swooned with pleasure, crying out her joy, yet when she came back to herself, she perceived her husband was not done loving her hard. So he went on, loving her just as hard, until tears simply came to her eyes, and something she’d not thought possible happened at last. She felt rapture seize her again, even more powerful than the first time, and she shouted her joy a second time, just as he was spending his hot seed inside her.

  It was with difficulty that she came back to herself, and scrambled to her feet to go and clean off his seed from between her legs. Her legs trembled and her knees nearly buckled as she did so, and she softly cursed under her breath. She heard him chuckle behind her, and she could hear male arrogance in his voice as he said:

  “Methinks I loved you rather well…”

  She heaved a sigh, unable even to speak at this time, and thinking he would be the death of her if more tournaments like this one took place and he was tense with battle longing. Yet he held her tenderly when she joined him in their bed, and his voice was full of warmth when he told her, “In truth, I’m glad you’re fully mine, my lady. I do not think I could ever wish for a better wife.”

  She pressed herself against him, savouring his warmth. She opened her mouth to speak words in return, telling him she’d never want a better husband. Yet it was different words that came upon her lips instead. I love you, husband. She was astounded the very moment she opened her mouth to speak them, and at the last moment bit them back. She’d never thought marriage was for love. Love was a courtly tale, that only troubadours believed in, wasn’t it? Marriage meant caring and loyalty and sometimes lust. But love? At that moment she understood in puzzlement that, in truth, she felt now certain she loved her husband, and had just failed to acknowledge it to herself in the past days. Aye, there was caring and loyalty and lust between them. Yet there was also love. She loved Bertran already and could not picture in her head a world where he was not her husband. She opened her mouth to tell him the words, thinking he would be glad to hear them, yet stopped herself in time. He had a tournament tomorrow. Now was not the time to utter stirring words like these. Perhaps he did not want to acknowledge such feelings at this time. His thoughts should perhaps be on what needed to be done on the morrow. On knightly battle rather than on courtly love.

 
“I am well pleased with you too, husband,” she said instead, kissing him lightly on the cheek and snuggling against him.

  Chapter 13

  Bertran felt well rested and light of heart the next day, telling himself that, whatever the outcome of the joust, he felt now sure his fears regarding Sir Erec and his lady had been silly. His lady’s eyes had shone fierce and true when she’d told him she belonged to him only, and a husband could not truly ask for more.

  His joust with Sir Erec was to open the tournament, which would span three days, with more jousts during the first day, and with sword fights on the second. The main event, the melee, would take place on the third day. Henry would allow for only a small tournament, prepared in haste, with a small number of knights, but it was better than nothing, since Henry himself usually disapproved of tournaments.

  Bertran kissed his lady ardently before he urged her to join the stalls that had been readied for the audience, looking upon the tournament field. Lady Alicia graciously offered to help while his squires assisted him with the pieces of his armour, but he declined her offer with a smile.

  “My squires are well able to handle things. So off you go, my lady,” he told her. “’Tis best you get a good seat to watch this joust. I mean to win it, you know.”

  Alicia had never seen him joust or engage in a sword fight, and he meant to show her he was a husband worthy of her, even if she’d not thought him good enough at first. She’d come to see his worth in the bedchamber and by her side, yet, he thought with a suppressed grin, she’d never had occasion to see his worth as a knight. Today he meant to show her he was indeed worthy of her hand.

  Alicia glanced upon him, returning his smile.

  “Well then, my lord, I hope your lance will strike well and true and you’ll be the victor,” she said brushing a feather-light kiss on his lips.

  He stared after her as she went away, telling himself there was no other course for him but to win the joust with De Jarnac. Now that he knew he had his lady’s full regard, he felt confident he would win.

  There was plenty of time left before the joust, and Bertran went to check on his destrier one last time. He had faith in his squires, but he always liked to see to his horse himself before a fight or a tournament. Once he’d made sure the spirited animal that he called Noir was well rested and shod, and fully ready for the charge, he headed towards the tent to get into his hauberk and into the rest of his armour.

  “Good luck, sir knight!” He heard a voice from behind him, and at first he attempted to pretend he had not heard the call.

  It was a voice he’d recognized as belonging to the lady Edith, and Lady Edith was the last person he wished to talk to before the joust. Her malicious gossip had done him harm enough as it was, and he didn’t want to exchange any words with her. Yet he was forced to stop and bow his head graciously when the lady caught up with him.

  “I will be cheering for your victory against the fop, De Jarnac,” Lady Edith said with a sickeningly sweet smile.

  He nodded and started to walk away.

  “I saw your wife just exchange words with him and it seemed she was wishing him luck,” Lady Edith added behind him.

  Bertran shook his head, telling himself it was best not to listen to whatever she was saying. He walked ahead, but it seemed Lady Edith’s loud voice was intent on following him.

  “Of course, it’s gracious of her to look upon her husband’s opponent, and I am sure it was kindly meant. After all, she and Erec grew up together and they’ve been close since childhood.”

  Bertran took a deep breath recalling only too well that Alicia had told him she was not so well acquainted with Erec, even if she’d known him a long time. Lady Edith was obviously lying.

  “And I am sure your lady wife is well pleased with you as her husband now,” Lady Edith’s hateful voice still followed. “I told her she was sobbing for naught when I helped prepare her for the bedding on her wedding night. It was plain she was still pining for Sir Erec, and some of us heard her whisper his name between sobs.”

  Another lie, Bertran told himself firmly, as he walked away with long hurried strides to reach his tent, not sparing Lady Edith another glance. Before the bedding, it had been natural for Alicia to feel distressed, because their rushed wedding had taken place right after a harsh spanking from him. Yet he doubted she’d ever called De Jarnac’s name.

  He dismissed the hateful words, knowing Lady Edith to be malicious and full of sheer spite for others. He put them away from his mind as he readied for the joust, and strove to focus on vanquishing his opponent. He thought on Sir Erec and of this knight’s fame as a tourneyer. It was not the first time he met Sir Erec in the field. They’d jousted against one another three other times, and had fought with swords twice in a tournament. Bertran was proud to have won both sword fights against De Jarnac. Yet, he’d only won one joust. Sir Erec had managed to win the other two.

  As he headed for the field, now fully armoured, Bertran thought more on Sir Erec. He had to admit that De Jarnac was a worthy opponent. Sir Erec’s family was also of better rank and wealth than his own family, and Erec had not been born a bastard. Bertran knew only too well all ladies admired Sir Erec’s appearance. Some of us heard her whisper his name between sobs. The hateful words rang in his mind, and no matter how much he pushed them away, they would not let him be. It seemed as if he was walking in his sleep when he got on his destrier and his squire handed him his lance for the first charge out of three against Sir Erec. Sir Erec… whom his lady had sought to marry. He strived to focus on the charge as he spurred his horse, trying to make his lance strike true and his shield hold firm, knowing the knight who was riding menacingly in his direction was a force to be reckoned with.

  The charge passed in a lightning-fast whirl. Stunned, Bertran belatedly understood he was already lying on the ground, and De Jarnac’s lance had already managed to unhorse him. He cursed, foully, tasting blood and realizing he’d bitten hard upon his tongue during the fall. Yet he soon rose, aided by his squire’s helping hands, feeling his flank and back throb fiercely.

  “This is just one, my lord. There’s two more to go,” one of his squires told him encouragingly, and he nodded, knowing now he had to win points in both the next charge and the one after the next.

  He did not dare to look towards the stalls where the courtiers were avidly watching and cheering. He knew his lady wife had seen him fall, unhorsed by the man she’d meant to marry and whom she’d thought worthier than him. Lady Edith’s hateful words rang in his ears. He imagined the triumphant smirk De Jarnac was now wearing upon his face as he was waiting for the next charge. A dark, determined rage descended over him. He would make him fall. Both times he would make De Jarnac fall. And he grimly hoped one of the falls may end up killing him.

  Alicia strived hard to keep her composure, as deep relief coursed through her, when she saw her husband had risen from his fall, and was heading for the next lance charge. The moment he’d fallen, she’d feared he was grievously injured. Even death by a fall was not uncommon in jousts. Oh, why hadn’t she tried to dissuade Bertran from entering the tournament? She now found she did not care at all for his knightly pride, for Henry’s command or for Eleanor’s plans. She just wanted her husband to be safe.

  Two more charges. And she watched with a thumping heart as both opponents galloped towards one another. She prayed within herself that Bertran would finish the joust hale and safe. She no longer cared for the outcome of it. She only wanted Bertran to be safe. She shouted with sheer joy when her husband’s lance struck the other knight with swift precision. The lance broke on his opponent’s chest, which meant Bertran was already the victor of this charge and he would get points. For a moment, it seemed De Jarnac would remain on his horse, yet in the end he was unable to hang on, because Bertran’s lance had shattered against his chest with rending force. And Sir Erec went down.

  Alicia suppressed a deep sigh, happy that, for now, Bertran was whole. However, she also felt relieved
when Sir Erec was able to rise from his dangerous fall. The points were, at this moment, even. This meant the fate of the joust would be decided on the last charge. Alicia would have wanted to close her eyes until the whole thing was over, yet she could not do so when her husband’s safety was at stake. So she watched on, striving to appear calm and confident, knowing if Bertran happened to glance at her from where he was, he would feel encouraged by her good cheer. The last charge soon began, and Alicia clenched her fists, wishing with all her might no harm should come to the man she loved.

  Her heart skipped with joy as her husband’s lance struck a blow even mightier than the one before, swiftly unhorsing his opponent, then she felt ashamed at rejoicing so when a man as amiable as Sir Erec lay on the ground and might be wounded. Yet she could not help but feel happy for her husband’s victory. It was then she unwittingly perceived Godfrey Haughton, whom she’d seen locked in an embrace with Erec, go as white as a sheet and look about to faint when Sir Erec wouldn’t rise from his fall and had to be carried away from the field by his squires. She also perceived some eyes were already glancing in curiosity towards Haughton, whose own family supported King Henry and who was supposed to rejoice in Bertran’s victory.

  She instantly understood questions might be asked if more eyes fell upon Godfrey Haughton and his obvious distress. So she took it upon herself to cry the motto her husband had claimed for himself, ever since he’d decided he would keep the name FitzRolf rather than revert to De Morne:

  “Non sans droict!” she cried in a loud, triumphant voice, drawing all gazes upon herself.