Chapter Eight
Joselyn had no idea what time it was when she was awakened by soft noises in her chamber.
It was bright in the room, indicating the late hour.
Lying curled up on her side, she opened her eyes to see that Stephen was very carefully attempting to remove his boots.
She lay there, not moving a muscle, as she watched him pull off first one boot and then the other, very carefully setting them down against the wall.
He was trying desperately not to make any noise but in his weary state, he was not doing a very good job.
She could hear him grunting and groaning softly as the boots and tunic came off. Finally, she took pity on him.
“You grunt like an old bear,” she said softly.
He pulled the tunic over his head, grinning down at her. “Is that so?” he tossed the tunic into the corner. “And you snore like one”
Her head came up, a frown on her lips. “I do not snore.”
He laughed softly, going to open the door and issuing orders to a soldier that was near the landing. He called for hot water and food before shutting the door and bolting it.
“Aye, you do,” he made his way over to the bed somewhat stiffly. “You make a very sweet whistling sound. I find it very charming.”
He sat down beside her and she lay her head back down again, studying the fatigue on his handsome face.
Though the cornflower blue eyes were glimmering, she could tell that he was exhausted, perhaps spiritually as well as physically.
It had been a very long night for them both and she was hesitant to ask him too many questions about the siege, fearful that she would not like his answers.
“Is the battle over?” she finally asked.
He nodded, raking his hand through his black hair. “For now,” he replied. “Hopefully we’ve given the Scots pause to think next time they try to attack the city. I would hope that peace will hold out for a time so that the citizens can at least recover.”
She thought a moment on that. “Between the English attacking the city and the Scots counter-attacking, I would imagine that everyone has had their fill of war.”
“Everyone but the Scots,” he grunted. “The city is in shambles.”
She propped herself up on an elbow. “I would like to help those put out by the constant warring,” she put her hand on his enormous thigh. “There must be something I can do for the citizens of Berwick.”
He put his massive hand over her small one. “’Tis a noble thought, but you have plenty to do at the castle,” he said. “Moreover, the city is still a dangerous place. I do not want you exposed to the hazards of a rebellion. There is no knowing when the Scots will attack again.”
She cocked her head thoughtfully. “But I am Scots. They would not harm me,” she squeezed his hand. “These are my people, Stephen. They are in distress and I feel very strongly that I must help. The constant battles have surely left them in great need.”
He opened his mouth but a knock on the door interrupted them.
He went to the door, opening it to admit two soldiers with a big iron pot of steaming water and Tilda bringing up the rear with a wooden tray of food.
Stephen took the food and chased everyone from the room.
Bolting the door, he set the tray down and collected a large piece of bread from it; taking a huge bite, he faced his wife.
“How would you help?” he asked, chewing.
She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Attend those who are injured, perhaps provide food to those who have none,” she ventured with a shrug. “I would help however I can. I simply cannot stay locked in this keep, well away from those who are fighting for young David’s cause.”
He swallowed the bite in his mouth, his cornflower blue eyes taking on a peculiar gleam. “When you married me, your loyalty became to England.”
She fixed him in the eye. “When I married you, my loyalty became to you and only you. But that does not mean I do not feel concern or pity for my people.”
He regarded her a moment before the warmth returned to the blue eyes. “Well put,” he said. “But can I at least have a few hours of peace myself before I have to delve into this subject?”
She grinned and rose from the bed, moving to the wardrobe that was against the wall, the one that she and the servants had moved down from the upper floor. “Of course,” she said. “Sit and eat your food and I shall help you bathe when you are finished.”
He grunted yet again as he sat on the bed, feeling his fatigue in every fiber of his body.
Plus, he was old for a fighting man at thirty years and seven.
His body had taken a lot of abuse over the years and he was beginning to pay the price.
He devoured most of the bread, the cheese and all of the wine as Joselyn removed some items from the wardrobe.
He watched her as she set out a few squares of drying linen and the bar of white soap that smelled like pine.
It was his soap. He had provided it to her to wash with because he had nothing else to offer.
He made a mental note to purchase sweet-smelling soap for his wife that she would like better than his manly pine.
Joselyn was very busy as Stephen ate his meal.
She was clad in a heavy shift, one of the newer garments he had bought her, and she quickly donned the old broadcloth surcoat over it to work in.
It was still dusty and dirty, having been one of the only garments she owned up until two days ago, but she did not want to get any of her new clothing wet as she helped her husband bathe.
Due to her chores at Jedburgh, she was well versed in things like washing or bathing, although she’d never personally washed a man.
But she did not experience a flicker of apprehension as she prepared to help Stephen wash.
She was, in fact, eager to do something for him.
The man had so far done all of the giving since she’d known him and she was eager to give back something in return, as small a gesture as it was.
In fact, since their conversation the night before when all horrors had been revealed, she was extremely eager to make a life with this man who seemed so capable of forgiveness and understanding.
With every moment that passed she was learning the character of this man whom she had married and her sense of gratitude grew.
She never imagined herself to be so fortunate and she was determined never to take one moment of her new life, or new husband, for granted.
The pot with warm water was big enough for Stephen to sit in if she put a three legged stool in it. She looked over at her husband as he finished the last of his bread.
“Do you have a razor?” she asked.
He nodded, dipping his head in the direction of his bags against the wall. “In there.”
“May I retrieve it?”
He nodded and she went to his bags, carefully pulling items out and setting them on the floor until she came to a long steel razor wrapped in heavy linen. She removed it, and a horsehair brush, and went back to prepare his bath.
“I am ready when you are, my lord,” she told him, putting a little water on the pine soap and working it into a heavy lather with the horsehair brush.
Stephen brushed off his hands, stood up, and removed his breeches. He went straight to the pot and climbed in, seating his bulk on the stool. It was a tight fit in the pot but manageable. Joselyn turned to him with an empty bowl in her hand, smiled, and went to work.
Stephen sat with his eyes closed as the warm water coursed over him.
It was the most relaxing, wonderful sensation he could imagine.
He let his mind clear of all thoughts except for those of Joselyn as she hovered next to him, carefully pouring water over his head and body.
She doused him several times before picking up the lathered brush, the soap, and going to work.
Stephen grunted as she began to soap him within an inch of his life.
She vigorously soaped his back, his chest and his arms. She used the brush to scrub the gore and dirt from his hands, under his nails, before softly commanding him to lift his arms, which he did, fearful that his docile wife had suddenly turned militant on him.
She soaped his armpits, ribs and belly before he was allowed to put his arms down again.
He had tried, once, and she had growled at him.
So the arms went back up and he grinned broadly.
It was difficult to keep from laughing as she ordered him to stand up so she could wash the rest of him.
He had a fairly significant arousal by this time and had to bite off his guffaws as she tried to work, red-faced, around it.
By the time she commanded him to sit back down again, her cheeks weren’t quite so red.
She rinsed him off thoroughly over and over before picking up the brush again and lathering up his beard.
Stephen sat stock-still as she carefully shaved him.
He was able to watch her at close range as she worked, the gentle curve of her face and the sweet bow of her lips.
He found himself studying every pore on her skin and counting how many dark eyelashes she had.
She had the most beautiful eyes. Finally, when he was clean-shaven, she wiped off his face and set the towel aside.
Stephen thought she was finished until he felt her lathering his shoulders again.
He was about to ask her what she was doing when she set the soap down, put her small hands on his shoulders, and began to rub.
He groaned and dropped his chin to his chest, wallowing in the pure pleasure of the massage. Her little hands applied gentle pressure as she rubbed away the knots that the burden of his command had created. It was heavenly.
“Good Christ,” he muttered. “Who taught you to do this?”