Chapter 11
“Drink this, dear,” Queen Eleanor said, placing a goblet of spiced wine in Gwen’s icy hand before dismissing the servant.
“Thank you, Majesty.”
It was almost time. Gwen gazed at the gigantic bed, its velvet curtains drawn open, the bedding turned down and strewn with rose petals. Rose petals! Where on earth had they gotten those this time of year?
A log crackled in the fireplace, the fragrant scent of herbs twining with the smoke. Gwen thought she smelled rosemary and mint. She took a deep breath, trying to keep her mind on anything but what was about to happen. It wasn’t working.
She couldn’t think about Rhys or Dafydd, just Richard and the look on his face when he’d found her.
She couldn’t get over the gnawing feeling he had seen her and Rhys.
His eyes had glittered with a note of challenge when he’d held out his hand.
She’d almost felt like he was daring her not to take it.
Eleanor glided to a chair and sank into it gracefully. Even at this advanced stage of pregnancy, she was elegant. “You must drink it all. The first time is better if you are relaxed.”
Other voices piped up, quickly agreeing with the queen.
Gwen looked at the faces of the ladies who had volunteered to prepare her for the bedding.
They had only been introduced to her today, these wives of Edward’s barons.
There were so many people attending the wedding that she knew she’d not seen even a third of them.
God, how she wished Elinor were here!
“Well, ladies, let us prepare this lovely bride for her husband,” said Catherine de Lacy, clapping her hands impatiently. She unclasped Gwen’s mantle and handed it to Alys.
Gwen stifled a smile. Alys’s face was redder than usual, her jaw set stubbornly. Gwen knew Alys was grumbling beneath her breath at having these highborn ladies intruding upon what should be her job. The old woman shook out the cloak, then retreated to the antechamber to hang it.
Mary de Clare, wife of the Earl of Gloucester, lifted the circlet from Gwen’s head, then began to delicately reshape any curls that had fallen flat. Mary seemed rather shy, and Gwen guessed her to be not much older than herself.
“You have glorious hair, Lady Gwenllian,” Mary said, her voice so soft Gwen barely heard her.
“Thank you, Lady Mary.”
Catherine stripped Gwen of her surcoat. “’Tis odd to think of Richard de Claiborne married once more. ’Tis been so many years since Elizabeth died, I was certain he would remain unwed. Certes, he’s had too much fun corrupting married women. ’Twas high time Edward forced him to take another wife!”
Margaret de Valence tittered. Mary blushed. Eleanor turned purple. “Catherine, you should not speak so in front of the Earl’s new bride!”
Catherine blinked. “Oh! Forgive me, Lady Gwenllian. I do not think sometimes. Henry always tells me I should think before I speak, but I can never manage to do so.”
Gwen’s heart dropped. Richard had been married? None of the stories she’d ever heard mentioned that. Had he loved his wife? What had happened to her? “’Tis forgiven, Lady Catherine. I am well aware my husband has a reputation. Our marriage was made for political reasons and not for love.”
Catherine smiled. “Aye, but that doesn’t mean you cannot enjoy the pleasures he can give you this night.”
“Do not mislead her, Catherine. The first time is not usually so pleasant. The second is much better,” Margaret said. “Do you not agree, Mary?”
Mary stammered her agreement, her face losing color. Her hands shook as she twisted a curl into place. No one else noticed Mary’s discomfort, but comprehension dawned on Gwen with chilling clarity.
Life with the Red Earl of Gloucester wasn’t pleasant. He was a big man, not so much tall as broad, and Mary was tiny compared to him. He must ravish her brutally.
Gwen shivered. Good Lord, Richard was far bigger than she. And she’d angered him plenty since she’d arrived. Would he hurt her like Gloucester hurt Mary?
“Finish your wine, Gwenllian, and the first time will not be so unpleasant as these ladies would have you believe,” Eleanor said.
“I was but thirteen when Edward took me to bed the first time, although we had been married since I was ten, and we drank wine until we were both giddy. ’Twas not at all unpleasant. ”
Margaret spoke first. “And we know the King has never displeased you, Majesty. How many children is it now?”
“Twelve,” Eleanor said, patting her belly. Her eyes lost some of their sparkle. “Though only half my babies have lived.”
“God grant you a son this time, Majesty,” Mary said.
Gwen, Catherine, and Margaret spoke as one. “Amen.”
Eleanor wiped away a tear, then stood. “You are as lovely as a bride should be, Gwenllian. Ladies, remove her chemise.”
Panic seized Gwen as they lifted the garment from her body. Cold air caressed her skin, goosebumps rising where it touched. Soon, Richard would touch her. That made her shiver even more.
Margaret dusted her with scented powder while Catherine daubed her with perfume. At last, they slipped a woolen robe over her naked body.
“Take her to the end of the bed. Catherine, Margaret, be ready to remove her bedrobe. Mary, you stand by the door,” Eleanor said, waving her hand. When all were in place, she turned to Alys, who held a long-handled pan. “Please warm the sheets, Alys.”
Alys nodded and picked up a set of tongs. She selected a few glowing embers from the fireplace and dropped them in the pan.
Gwen forced her breath to come slowly, steadily. Her heart raced. From anticipation? From fear? Perhaps it was both.
Men’s voices came faint at first, growing louder with each passing second. They were on the stairs, moving ever closer. Their voices rose, becoming more distinct, more individual.
Eleanor took the goblet, nodding in satisfaction at its emptiness.
“Do not be frightened, my dear. Hold your head high. The inspection will take but a moment and then we will put you in bed. I am afraid you will have to endure listening to their crude jokes for a short time, but I am sure Richard will get them out quickly.”
Gwen returned the Queen’s smile and took a deep breath. She could handle this. She was Llywelyn ap Gruffydd’s daughter.
“I want this over with quickly, Ned,” Richard growled in the king’s ear.
“Patience, Richard. You’ll have the lass to yourself soon enough. Let these men have their fun.”
Edmund and Gilbert reached the chamber first and pounded on the wooden door.
When it didn’t open immediately, men at the rear of the party began to holler how best to breach a stubborn entryway.
Soon, the entire party had taken it up, suggestions ranging from ramming it swiftly to penetrating it slowly.
Richard grated his teeth together. He’d never liked these damn ceremonies, although he conceded the necessity for them.
How else to make sure the bride and groom were free of flaws?
But it always seemed that the poor bride was the one to suffer from the pop-eyed scrutiny and bad behavior of so many drunken men.
He was in no mood for this tonight. He clung to the edge of his control by the barest thread.
Seeing his wife with her lover had frayed his temper badly.
He’d stifled an urge to break up their lovers’ quarrel, intercepting Gwen when she hurried away.
He’d immediately pulled her to the dais and signaled the king to announce the bedding-down revelries.
The sooner he was alone with her, the better.
While the ladies had left the hall to prepare, Edmund and Henry de Lacy had plied him with drink, thinking it would be funny to see him pass out on his wedding night. He’d drank only half of what they’d given him, pouring the rest onto the rushes.
The wine had merely fostered his rage until he was ready to burst with it. He recalled none of the conversation, none of the ribald comments of his peers.
The door opened. Mary de Clare paled when she saw her husband at the forefront. Richard felt sorry for the tiny woman. He knew Gilbert was hard on her. Edward knew it too, but there was nothing to be done about it. A man’s wife was his property, and he could treat her however he saw fit.
Mary stepped back to allow the men to enter. Richard was pushed through first, Edmund and Gilbert on his heels.
“My lords,” the queen said, motioning to the bed.
But Richard was already staring. He searched Gwen’s face, looking for fear, for contempt. Her glorious eyes glittered, but she held her chin high. If she was afraid, she hid it well.
Hands were on him suddenly, removing his clothes. He did not resist, did not help, merely stood. When they had stripped him to his chausses and braies, he stopped them with an upraised hand, ignoring the protests that arose.
Gwen returned his heated stare. From the moment his broad chest was bared, she could not tear her gaze away.
A few scars criss-crossed the hard muscles, silent testament to a life spent wielding a sword.
Black hair spread across his chest, tapering to disappear beneath the waist of the braies that rode his narrow hips.
When their gazes again locked, his eyes were aflame. But was it desire or anger? Her heart beat faster.
Catherine and Margaret grasped the edges of the robe and pulled it from Gwen’s body. Voices raised in merriment died to a murmur, then hushed altogether.
Gwen fought to remain still. She knew the others stared too, but she could only look at Richard. The intensity of his stare, the darkening of his eyes from slate to pewter, the coiled tautness of his muscles made her weak at the knees.
He took a step forward. Eleanor held up her hand. “Do you find a flaw, my lord?”
He stopped, swallowed. “No,” came the husky reply.
“And you, my lady?” Eleanor asked, turning to Gwen.
Dear Lord, like she would even know what she was supposed to be looking for! “Nay,” she replied, her voice trembling.