My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“’Tis a pity you have no fine ladies to attend you on such a night,” Meg said, fussing with Catrin’s hair.

The maid had brushed the long, heavy strands for what seemed like hours. Catrin thought each one must sparkle and pop like the roaring fire that bathed the solar in an eerie glow and caused her head to ache from the stuffiness the heat created.

“No family. No friends,” Meg prattled on.

Catrin shut her eyes and held her tongue. Did Meg chatter to quiet her own nerves? She couldn’t begrudge her maid that comfort. Why remind the well-meaning woman of the strangeness of her circumstance? Catrin was not Olwen. She had neither mother nor sister to ease her into womanhood with the bedding ritual. Perchance Meg was doing her best as a substitute.

The maid had helped her bathe in the morning, and now along with the hair brushing, Meg had liberally doused her with a traditional love potion made from one part lavender flowers, orris root, and musk seed and one-half part cinnamon and rose petals.

Catrin seriously doubted whether her groom needed such enticement. From what she had seen and felt, his arousal was certainly assured.

She lifted the goblet she’d been holding to her lips and once more let the tart liquid slide down her throat.

Meg frowned with disapproval. “You drink too much.”

“Ah, yes. Sweet Bacchus will take the place of mother and sister,” Catrin said, her words slurring.

“’Tis not the god of wine you need,” Meg snapped, “but our Holy Father’s blessing.”

Catrin cocked her head. “I could use that too.”

Heaven knew she needed all the help she could get to see her through this night.

Almost as if her wishes had been heard, a sharp rap sounded on the solar door and Father Ellis pushed his way into the room without so much as a “by your leave.”

“Your husband sent me to bless the wedding bed.” He was unsteady on his feet.

So, Bacchus had made his rounds. Catrin handed her cup to Meg and turned on her stool, the long strands of her hair shadowing her eyes. Pulling her robe around her shoulders, she watched the monk stagger across the room to stand, however wobbly, beside the great bed.

“Bless, O Lord, this sleeping chamber,” Father Ellis began, making the sign of the cross. “Watch over thy servants who rest in this bed, guarding them from all fantasies and illusions of devils; guard them waking that they may meditate upon thy commandments; guard them sleeping that in their slumber they may think of thee. ”

He droned on for a few moments longer, sprinkling the bed clothing with holy water before turning from his task.

Now oddly sober, he leveled a stare at Catrin. “You will not deny him his due,” he said in a hushed voice. “He must not suspect the switch. All of our lives depend upon you playing your part.”

“’Tis no need to warn me, good Father. I am well aware of my duty.” She lifted her head haughtily, brushing back her hair with a finger, and glared back at him.

“’Twas your idea and now this scheme must work,” he whispered in warning.

Catrin swallowed the lump in her throat. What could she say to ease his anxiety? Or her own? The priest’s hands shook and his face paled. No wonder he had hidden behind the pagan god of drink…as she had.

Catrin rose and went to him. Father Ellis was a big man, softened by years of living at Northbridge. “Never fear. I will do my part,” she told him.

“I do fear,” he whispered. “For my soul.”

Catrin swayed, but straightened her spine with effort and confronted the man’s fear with a hard look.

He met her daring glare by pulling himself up and puffing out his chest. “Make ready,” Father Ellis snapped. “He will soon come.”

Rotating on his heel, he left the solar and shut the massive oaken door behind him.

Gazing after him, Catrin’s eyes lost their focus. The room blurred. Her head began to spin. Meg approached, slowly stripped the robe from her shoulders, and led her, naked, toward the marriage bed.

A thump on the stone steps prompted Bran to look up from where he stood studying the crackling fire. Father Ellis, his flowing black robes billowing behind him, descended the stairs. With his head ducked, he did not meet Bran’s eye.

“’Tis done,” the priest mumbled in passing.

Bran watched him scurry away, surely back to his cup from whence Rhys had extracted him. The wedding banquet had ended what seemed like hours ago, trestle tables put away, and revelers taken to their beds to sleep off the effects of too much food and drink. Bran stood alone near the hearth and stared with longing at the stone steps that coiled up the tower wall to the lord’s solar.

Lady Olwen had no woman-folk of her station to properly witness the bedding and he had no hale companions with whom to drink and carouse before heading up those steps to prove his manhood. And claim her virginity. The Lord had blessed him in that he had no such witnesses. Verily, the thought of spectators on such a valued night had almost sent him seeking his own drink.

Yet he had forborne the temptation, knowing full well he would unlikely rise to the occasion if too deep in his cups. Not so concerned were most of the servants nor his fair bride, it seemed. He had to smile. His wife was fast becoming inebriated when he saw her last.

Bran held out his hands to the fire, his palms warming to the heat. A muscle flexed in his jaw. He was by no means unsympathetic to Olwen. Had not the queen warned him of her timidity? Had not she advised him to go slow? In faith, he had not objected to refilling her cup after understanding her reason for drinking. As the lad’s song said, Bacchus would ease her way, just as surely as it would hinder his.

He curled his fingers into fists, letting the heat redden his knuckles. The fire played before his eyes and cast a bright aura around him. All he had worked for was finally within his grasp. He had only to climb yon stairs and take the lass who awaited him. He had only to consummate the vows they had spoken. Then this castle and these lands would truly be his.

Excitement surged through him. He hardly could contain himself, nor contain the sudden rise of his cock. Bran wanted to throw back his head and chuckle. Why had he worried and sworn off good wine? Tonight he would have no problem with the task required of him. Making his long-sought wishes come true would be easy.

Suddenly, he could wait no longer. Why had not the maid come down? What were the two women doing? Impatience prodded him, and he paced in front of the hearth, his boots muffled in the rushes.

“My lord?”

Bran turned quickly to glare at the maid. He lifted an eyebrow, questioning.

“My lady is ready.” She bobbed a curtsy and darted away.

Not all the castle was so skittish. Just the priest and this maid. Most of the inhabitants had welcomed his arrival, vowing their loyalty and their service.

So much for idle conjecture. He would win those two over before long, for they were important servants to his wife. Now, he had other matters to attend.

Anticipation filled him, sending an empty feeling throughout his stomach. Grasping a candlestick, he started up the steps, slowly, without haste. He dared not frighten Olwen, or his task would be made more difficult.

Bran entered the solar, shut and bolted the door. Nothing but silence greeted him. Turning, he gauged his surroundings, shadowy in the dim light of candles on two wall sconces and the one he carried. As befit the lord’s station, there was an enormous four-posted canopy bed in the middle of the room, already curtained by linen hangings. Other than that, the contents of the room were a few stools and chests, Castilian carpets on the stone floor, and a tapestry suspended on the far wall.

As he gazed across the room, eagerness almost overcame him. He controlled the fires that threatened to explode within and walked forward, placing the candlestick on a chest for safety.

Where was Olwen? A heady floral scent filled his nostrils. Preparations had been made for him that was certain. He surmised she was awaiting him in bed.

In a hurry now, he sat on one of the stools, wishing for Rhys attendance, and pulled off his boots. Rising, he stripped off his outer surcoat and the tunic beneath. Standing in only his braies, his feet upon the cold stones, he stifled the need to cry out with joy. Undignified as it was, he could hardly suppress the strange emotions that ranged through him.

Elation, eagerness, anticipation merged within his chest. He was a lucky man. His work and loyalty would pay off better than he could ever imagine.

Bran fumbled as he untied the strings that held his undergarments around his waist, and then dropped the clothes to the floor. Cool air bathed him, soothing his overheated skin. He approached the high bed, his heart thrumming mercilessly in his chest.

“Olwen?”

No answer. He grasped the linen hanging and jerked it back .

Somewhere in the midst of the sable coverlets, his wife slept, her gentle breathing music to his ears.

“ Cariad ?”

Unwilling to disturb her, but impatient to see her, Bran lifted the candlestick and brought it nearer to the bed. The soft light spread a dim illumination, enough for him to see Olwen’s gentle brow, peaceful now in slumber. Her fair lashes touched her high cheekbones, her full lips relaxed. Her hair, feathering around her, was smoothed so that it created a natural drape for her ample breasts. Her arms outside of the covers were pale and her fingers long and tapered.

Bran reached across the bed and touched her velvety hand, fascinated by its beauty. This woman belonged to him. Legally. Physically. He was in awe of her for that reason. Gently, he slid his fingers under hers, holding her hand, rubbing her short, sturdy nails with his thumb. The pad of her right thumb was roughened, almost as if something had nicked it. The thought of any injury coming to his precious possession angered him.

Filled with an instant, overwhelming need to protect her, Bran snuffed out the candle and placed it aside. Carefully, so not to awaken her, he climbed into bed, leaving the hanging drawn back. The mattress sagged beneath his weight. He slipped under the heavy coverlets, feeling the cool sheets on his warm skin, and stretched out, pulling the fur over both their shoulders.

His wife sighed in her sleep and turned on her side to face him. He studied her in the dim light that was left from the dying fire, inhaling her intoxicating floral scent, feeling her breath against his face. How he ached to draw her to him—to feel the swell of her breasts against his chest. To feel his swelling inside her.

Bran forced down his aching arousal. Snuggling deeper under the coverlets, he shut his eyes. In a moment, he would awaken her. In a moment, he would do what needed to be done and consummate his marriage.

“Don’t move!”

Awake in a heartbeat, Bran’s eyes opened with alarm, his senses suddenly alert. Something sharp pressed against his throat.

She loomed above him, straddling his hips, her naked body outlined in the shadows.

“You have me at your advantage, my lady,” he said as courteously as if he’d been at court.

“So tell me, My Lord Raven,” his wife hissed. “Why did you kill Gilbert Fitzalan and his father Earl Rothmore?”