Chapter 2 #2
Their childlessness had not mattered at first. Betrothed at sixteen, married at seventeen, life stretched before them like an open road, and the tangled pleasures of fighting and bed play absorbed all their attention.
After a year or so, however, the questions started—well-meaning questions about when Jehanne would quicken.
Galeran was even taken aside by his embarrassed father to check that the young couple were actually doing all that was necessary.
They certainly were, and enjoying it so much that they were in no great hurry to have the fun interrupted by pregnancy and birth. The concern of all around began to affect them, however, so they took measures.
Herbs were recommended, and dutifully used. Prayers were offered. Jehanne even agreed to wear an amulet to keep away the evil spirits that could eat a woman's children before they started to grow.
Still, it was all more a matter for amusement than concern. At eighteen they lived in youthful optimism that everything would come in time, and in the meantime they had much to absorb them.
Jehanne had already perfected her skills as chatelaine and was an industrious, efficient manager.
Galeran was continuing to develop fighting skills as well as the administrative abilities he would need to run the barony when Jehanne's father died.
He was entranced by the power and prestige of Heywood.
After all, as a younger son, he had never expected to become a landed lord so easily.
The unexpected marriage had come about because Jehanne's brothers had died, leaving her heir to her ailing father's estates. Fulk of Heywood decided to marry her off quickly to a suitable young man, one old enough for responsibility but young enough to be trained by him.
He naturally looked to the large family of his neighbor, William of Biome. Will, the eldest son, was already married. Eustace, the second son, was nineteen and all a man could want in a son-by-marriage.
The betrothal negotiations were well advanced, when Eustace threw everything into disorder by announcing that he felt called to become a priest, a fighting priest opposing the Moors in Iberia.
Fulk howled, Lord William raged, but Eustace held his ground as firmly as one would expect of a holy warrior.
Thus Galeran found himself the focus of dynastic plans.
Just sixteen and more interested in horses and hounds than women, he was not consulted.
He was summoned from Lancashire, where he served as squire to Lord Andrew of Forth, stuffed into unusually fine clothes, and taken to Heywood to be betrothed to a frosty girl a few months older and a few inches taller than he.
Scarce over that shock, he was told he would live at Heywood and complete his training in arms under Lord Fulk, while learning how to manage property.
Despite the shock, Galeran recognized his good fortune. He was being handed a castle and estates of his own and was likely to have them soon, since Lord Fulk was ailing. The only mold in this tasty loaf was his betrothed wife.
The Lady Jehanne made no secret of the fact that she would prefer to marry another, Raymond of Lowick.
Tall, handsome Raymond had been her father's squire, and was now known throughout the north for his skill with arms. At her father's command, she had accepted that she was to marry Eustace of Brome, who was equally tall and handsome in a rough-cut way, and who had also proved himself in battle.
She had not expected to marry a slightly built boy.
"I'm a full two months older than you," was virtually the first thing she said to him.
He had sisters and knew how to handle that. "Then you'll doubtless die sooner." But his voice had cracked on it, and he would have given his right hand that it not, because she wasn't his sister. She was that frightening creature, the woman who would one day be his wife.
They'd already made the vows and signed the documents, witnessed by thirty or so men of standing in the north.
Now they'd been sent to sit together at the opposite end of the hall while the contented men drank their health.
They were both dressed in the finest silks and bullion, but Jehanne wore hers as if accustomed, and Galeran had never had such fine clothes in his life.
His dark hair was neatly trimmed. Hers had clearly never been cut. It rippled in a shimmering fall of pale gold silk down to her slender hips. Coming from a dark-haired family, it seemed a marvel to him, but a marvel like lightning, or dragon-fire, or flood.
Dangerous rather than desirable.
His skin was dusky, for his family came not long ago from southern France, where the sun was hot. Jehanne's bloodlines were more northern. Her translucent skin, smooth as fine, polished horn, lay neatly over delicate bones. Her red lips promised warmth, but her clear blue eyes were winter-cold.
She tossed her head, causing the golden silk to undulate like a live thing. "I wanted to marry a man. Even your brother would be better than you."
"My brother preferred the Church." He hoped she caught the silent rider that it was now clear why.
Her lips tightened and she looked him over. "I'd think the Church would appeal to you too. You don't have the build of a fighting man."
That remark was enough to double Galeran's devotion to his military training.
He knew he was small, but he had every faith that he would grow.
Perhaps he would never be as big as his father or older brothers, but he would grow.
Surely he would soon be bigger than his wife.
Despite his size, he already had considerable skill in swordplay and riding, and though scarcely acknowledging it, he set out to show Jehanne that she was not marrying a priest.
He enjoyed such exercise too, except when his bride-to-be came to observe.
She watched his sword work one day, then commented, "Your left arm is weaker than your right."
He turned, shaking sweat from his hair. "Everyone's is, including yours."
She smirked. "No, it isn't. I'm left-handed."
"Cursed, you mean," he retorted, referring to a common superstition.
She tossed her head. "Only by you, sirrah."
But as she walked away he turned back to his work, satisfied that he'd scored in that bout.
Perhaps that was why she changed tactics and waylaid him in the quiet of the stables. "Since we're to be married, Galeran, you had better kiss me."
He moved uneasily away. "I don't want to kiss you."
"Of course you do." She cocked her head and studied him with a slight smile. "Or is it that you don't know how to kiss?"
He felt the red rise in his face, "I know, but you shouldn't."
She laughed. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Then I'd never know if you did it right." Chameleon-like, she turned sultry and moved forward to lay a hand on his chest. "If you learn to kiss properly, Galeran, I might let you do more.... Or is that what you're afraid of?"
She'd used perfume—something flowery, but spicy too—and it rose off her like a warning.
This new territory terrified him so much, he dodged away from her. "You speak wickedness. One day, Jehanne, I will beat you."
She laughed. "You'll have to grow a bit first."
When he lunged for her, she danced away, still laughing at him. He could have caught her, but he came to his senses.
He might be her promised husband, but that didn't mean he had a husband's rights.
Yet.
The thought of husbandly rights led him to thoughts of husbandly duties.
The wedding was but four months away and Jehanne was right—he didn't know what to do.
At least, he knew the facts, and had seen his brothers with a maid now and then, but he had no practical knowledge.
He hadn't been much interested in women before his betrothal, and since then he'd been at Heywood.
It didn't seem right, somehow, to dally with the maids in his wife's home.
But he did need some practice, and so he overcame his scruples and started to kiss the wenches who appealed to him.
He found the business pleasant enough. It also introduced him to other joys—the soft feel of a woman's body, especially her breasts; the warm glow in her eyes when she was pleased; the sultry smell of a woman—so different from that of a sweaty man; the feelings in his own body, demanding more.
He didn't act on those demands—that still didn't seem right—but he often thought of visiting Brome, where he knew the names of some willing women.
Then, one day, Jehanne came upon him with his favorite dairy maid in his lap.
Though stung by guilt, he was heartened by the naked fury in his betrothed wife's eyes.
He knew then that he had wanted Jehanne to catch him, wanted to see her angry over it.
He pushed the maid off his knees and gave her a playful swat on the rear to send her on her way.
Jehanne, of course, swiftly controlled herself. "I suppose you're practicing," she said with a dismissive air. "Are you hoping to get it right before we're wed?"
"Why would I care as long as I broach you and get you with child?"
She virtually snarled at him. "So I won't laugh at you."
"If you don't laugh at me, I won't laugh at you."
And he scored that time too, for she stormed off with angry color in her cheeks.
But perhaps, after all, she won that bout, for he found he didn't like to upset her and gave up his games with the maids. More than ever, though, he wanted to visit Brome so he could truly practice for his wedding night.
Broaching was all very well in theory, for he knew what bit went where, but many things that seemed simple in theory proved to be quite difficult when arrived at—like aiming a ballista so that the rock it threw actually did some damage.
He remembered his first attempt at that exercise, and the way his rock had thumped into the ground far short of the target.
He certainly didn't want to fall short in the marriage bed.
Did she know any more than he, though? Surely not. She was a high-spirited girl, for her mother had died years before and her father had been somewhat neglectful in her rearing, but Fulk was not the sort of man to tolerate a wanton daughter. She couldn't have dallied with other men. Could she?
He did wonder uneasily about Raymond of Lowick, who visited Heywood too often for Galeran's comfort. Ostensibly, he came to pay respects to his old master, but he flirted with Jehanne. She did not appear to encourage him, but she didn't reject him either.
In fact, to Galeran Jehanne was a tangled mystery.
She didn't walk delicately, but strode about, skirts swinging.
Yet she looked as graceful as other women.
She didn't bend her neck and lower her gaze, but looked men straight in the eye, whether it was her father, Galeran, or Lowick.
Yet it was not unbecoming. She rode out to the hunt as fast and fierce as any man, and liked to be in at the kill.
Galeran had quickly learned that any impression of delicacy was an illusion.
She was a dead shot with her bow, could wield a light sword with skill, and lift a sack of grain without difficulty.
He found he didn't mind this at all since she was just as skillful in women's matters.
She could spin fine thread and weave sound cloth, and her embroidery was a marvel to him.
More important, she could organize others to spin and weave and embroider, so Heywood prospered under her rule.
She knew just how everything should be done, and seemed to have her eye everywhere.
Swift with punishment for those who failed in their duties, she was never cruel, but simply drew the best work out of everyone.
The people of Heywood were proud of their lady, and so was Galeran. He admired her, sharp tongue and all, and though she still made him nervous, he learned how to handle her. He learned military matters from the master-at-arms, and more personal fighting from Jehanne.
And he enjoyed both.
And at last he was growing. One day he realized he was taller than she, and in the next little while he put on even more height and weight, so that by two months before the wedding he topped her by half a head.
Perhaps in response to this, Jehanne taunted less.
Now she watched him with a different light in her eyes and she never accosted him alone.
But then, when their wedding day was but a month ahead, she trapped him in a deserted corridor. "Are you ready to kiss me yet, husband-to-be?" She had to look up at him.
Yes, he was ready, and more than ready. He immediately caught her wrist, then trapped her waist with his other arm. She stiffened, blue eyes wide. With shock? Anger? Excitement? He still couldn't read her, and at that moment he didn't much care.
He put his lips against hers, then stopped, wondering what she would do. She did nothing, but disconcertingly, still stared at him, unblinking.
"Don't you know what to do?" he taunted against her lips.
"I'm waiting to see if you do." But the words moved her lips against his, and brought a hint of her warm breath to play. His body reacted instantly and he froze, frightened of himself.
He saw the glint in her eye, and the next moment she stuck out her tongue and licked at his lips.
He pushed her away, but not far. "Who's taught you tricks like that?"
She smiled in the way that infuriated him. "Who's taught you to recognize them?"
"It's different for men and women."
"Is it?"
Infuriated, he dragged her back and kissed her, hard and rough, not caring if she was impressed or not, just intent on showing her who was master. She stayed stiff in his arms for a moment, but then suddenly relaxed and kissed him back, tongue playing, body curving in closer to his.
He enjoyed it thoroughly until he realized what was happening. Then he jerked back with shock and let her go. "You have kissed before!"
She cocked her hip. "Have I?"
"Who?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
"Yes, so I could kill him."
She laughed. "You?"
He hit her.
She cried out, hand to her red cheek. Then she hissed with rage and went for him with her fists, her nails, with every part of her slender, strong body.
He tried to control her and found it impossible, so they ended up in an all-out fight, a tangled wrestling match, scraped, scratched, bruised, and with fine clothing torn to rags.
They had to be pulled apart, snarling like wild dogs, and he'd been sent home to face his father's wrath.