The Marsh King's Daughter (19 page)

She could pack her belongings and move on to the next town, Newark perhaps, but if Gerbert alerted the authorities, as he had threatened, her past was as likely to catch up with her there as it had now. She could gamble that he was bluffing, but if she was wrong, she would be ostracised, perhaps as he said put in the stocks or turned over to the ecclesiastical courts for punishment.

Or she could marry him. Give him a husband's rights over her person and property. Miriel buried her head in the darkness created by her arms and the bright blanket. He was old, past three score at least. The thought of sharing a bed with him made her recoil. The more pragmatic part of her mind told her that such marital duty was bound to be infrequent. Indeed, given Gerbert's years and the way he was prone to puffing up like a frog when agitated, she might be single again before long, and twice as rich with a very lucrative wool-gathering business to boot.

Face or flee. Slowly Miriel sat up and gazed into the fire, a frown of concentration on her face. She had been able to wind her grandfather round her little finger, why not Gerbert? Let him bind her in marriage, she thought grimly. She would tie him in a knot of his own making and still have her way.

When she fell asleep, she dreamed that it was her wedding night, but her lover's body was young and hard, and her loins ached with unbearable sweetness as he kissed and fondled her, his hips rocking on hers.

She woke sweating and gasping, a twist of sheet rucked between her thighs, and the dawn chorus clamouring at the shutters.

Miriel was married to Gerbert Woolman on an August morning at St Mary's Church. Although attended by many members of the merchant fraternity, the ceremony was a simple affair. Miriel and Gerbert exchanged vows before witnesses in the church's stone porch. Since Miriel had no family to witness for her, Master Bridlesmith stepped into the role with earnest enthusiasm. 'Practising for when our Elfwen ties the knot,' he said with a grin.

Once the seal ring of heavy gold had been placed on Miriel's finger, the couple entered the church itself to kneel before the altar for the rites of the wedding mass.

Gerbert, having got what he wanted, beamed with unalloyed delight. Miriel's smile was strained. She knew that folk were looking at them, speculating as to who had married whom - the attractive young widow seizing on the old man for his wealth in the knowledge that his years were numbered, or the wily old man gaining a toothsome bedmate and a very fine weaving business as an extension to his wool trade.

Feeling Gerbert's hot damp hand on hers, Miriel suppressed a shudder. The thought of the night to come made her feel sick, made her even wish in a corner of her mind that she was still a nun at St Catherine's.

'Congratulations, Mistress Woolman,' said Robert Willoughby, finding her briefly alone whilst Gerbert spoke with other guests. The greenish eyes held their customary glint of humour. 'If I had known the old fox was going to be so swift about his wooing, I'd not have tarried myself Leaning forward, he kissed her cheek, and she was enveloped in the powerful masculine aromas of spikenard and cedar.

'If I had known it, my feet might have run faster,' Miriel admitted ruefully.

'He forced you?' Willoughby's glance shot to Gerbert who was hastily disengaging himself from his guests to rescue his bride.

Miriel smiled and shook her head. 'Not in the way you mean. Besides, some would say that I had the better part of the bargain.'

'Then they are blind.'

Miriel blushed. There was more in his expression than mere courtesy, although it was swiftly veiled as Gerbert arrived to seize her arm possessively.

'You're a fortunate man, Godfather,' Robert said.

'Yes I am.' Gerbert tightened his grip on Miriel's sleeve, his beard bristling.

'I wish you both joy and prosperity of your marriage.' With a graceful bow, Robert moved off to mingle with the other guests.

Gerbert watched him narrowly for a moment until Miriel pinched him. 'I am not a bone to be fought over,' she said. 'He did but pause to offer congratulations. If you are going to suspect every man who speaks to me, then what hope does that wish for joy have?'

Taking her other hand, Gerbert turned her to face him. 'Yes, I know,' he sighed. 'I am pleased that others admire you, but I cannot help be a little jealous. Robert has a way with women.'

Miriel sighed too, already wondering if she had made the right decision.

In contrast to the simplicity of the ceremony, the wedding feast was a lavish affair. Gerbert had spared no expense to fete his bride and had hired an army of cooks, servants and entertainers for the occasion. The summer's end had provided a glut of foods for the table. Aside from the usual sucking pigs and roasted squabs, there were plump chicken breasts in a piquant sauce. The meat from the rest of the carcasses had been chopped and baked with onions and spices in succulent little pies. There were sides of pickled salmon and salvers piled high with oysters. Gerbert ate greedily of these, prising open the shells with dextrous twists of his knife and sucking out the contents to much innuendo and bawdy laughter.

Miriel, who usually adored oysters, could scarcely open her throat to allow even one to slide down. She was terrified of the next stage of the wedding rite. She knew the rudiments of the mating act, knew that the organ between a man's legs was designed to fit in the secret sheath between a woman's thighs where the monthly blood flowed and babies emerged nine months after the seed was planted, but otherwise she was ignorant. Men enjoyed the deed to judge by their boasts. She had heard her stepfather and mother in bed sometimes. The moans and groans, puffing and panting, made the act of procreation sound about as much effort and pleasure as pushing a massive boulder uphill.

The feast progressed through its various courses and the wine flowed with abandon. Miriel partook sparingly. If she drank herself into a stupor she would not be aware of what was being done to her. While not keen to acquire the knowledge, she needed to know.

As the guests became rowdy under the influence of wine, Miriel modestly begged leave to retire. Her departure was greeted with cheers and whistles. Gerbert was slapped on the back and teased mercilessly. Another platter of oysters was shoved under his nose.

In the quiet of the bedchamber, Miriel removed her wimple and sat down on the coverlet of embroidered Flemish wool. The bed had been made up with crisp new sheets to honour the occasion, and strewn with sweet-smelling herbs to promote fertility. Against one wall stood Miriel's coffer, and inside it, at the bottom, the smaller wooden chest containing the remaining pouches of silver and Mathilda's crown. Both coffer and chest were locked and Miriel kept the keys about her person, but still she was nervous. It was not a safe hiding place. As soon as there was a convenient moment, she intended finding somewhere more secure.

Her moment of solitude was brief. Before she had collected her thoughts, Eva Bridlesmith and young Elfwen appeared in the doorway, eager to act as her attendants. Chattering with pleasure, they helped her to remove her outer dress of slate-blue linen, and her pale green undertunic. Elfwen tidied the clothes while her mother drew a bone comb through Miriel's hair until it hung in a honey curtain to her collarbone.

'At least you'll know what to expect,' Eva said as she cleaned the comb of stray hairs before going to turn down the bed covers. A wine-glow had flushed her cheeks and put a sparkle in her eye.

Miriel's nod was far from convincing. As she climbed into bed, she could not prevent her teeth from chattering.

'I know that this match is a business arrangement between the two of you, but still, I'm sure you'll be content together. There's much to be said for the steady ways of older men.' Eva squeezed Miriel's hand. 'Why, you're colder than an icicle!' She gestured briskly to her daughter. 'Bring that flagon over here.'

A cup of spiced wine later, Miriel felt little better. Although the drink had warmed her veins, it had also made her feel light-headed.

'You'll be all right,' Eva soothed. 'Gerbert might not be much to look at, but he's experienced in the ways of the world. Young husbands have fine bodies, but they've more notion how to please themselves than their wives.'

'Does that mean I should marry an old man?' Elfwen asked saucily.

Her mother batted her hand at her daughter's jesting. 'It means you should choose wisely.'

The noise of laughter and heavy footfalls on the outer stairs alerted the women to the arrival of the bridegroom and his party for the bedding ceremony. Feeling sick, Miriel clung to Eva's words about a business arrangement. This was just part of the bargain that had to be fulfilled, she told herself.

Gerbert was slightly unsteady on his feet and, against the white fluff of his beard, his complexion was wine-red. His less than sober companions divested him of tunic, chausses and shirt, but left him the dignity of his braies. Although past three score years, Gerbert still retained his height and flesh.

His freckled stomach bulged above the drawstring waistband of the braies. His chest was wide, the pectorals sagging and the nipples edged with curly silver hair. Stocky thighs tapered into rounded calves and broad feet with horny yellow skin on the big toes.

After one horrified glance, Miriel avoided looking at him. The covers were thrown back, and he was pushed into bed beside her.

'Let's have a good night's sowing and weaving!' a merchant punned.

'Aye, run your shuttle through the loom, warp and weft!'

'Give us a shout if you need help wi' the threading!'

'Go on, be off with you!' Gerbert swatted at his companions in amused irritation. 'Leave my wife and me in peace, or the cloth won't be finished ere daybreak! And no listening outside the door, you buggers!'

With much laughter and yet more teasing and innuendo, the guests eventually took their leave and went downstairs to finish off the wine and what remained of the food.

Gerbert looked at Miriel. 'Well, wife,' he said with forced jocularity, 'alone for the first time today.'

'Yes.' Miriel managed the barest stretching of her lips in response, realising at the same time that Gerbert was nervous and uneasy too. The rapid beating of her heart was only a mirror of the pulse hammering in his throat beneath the combed white beard. He had been chewing aniseed to freshen his breath and the scent of the herb engulfed the bed. More than ever he reminded her of her grandfather. Lying with him would seem like incest. Blessed Mary, how was she going to cope?

'Do you want some wine?' He indicated the flagon near the coffer.

Miriel shook her head. 'I have drunk enough already.'

'I just thought it might ease you.' Gerbert poured some for himself and gulped it down like a soldier bound for a battle. His hand shook and a red rivulet dribbled down his wrist. 'Ah God,' he laughed, 'I'm like a green boy with his first woman, so eager and afraid that I fear I will shame myself.'

Miriel clenched her fists in her chemise. 'I'm afraid too,' she said in a small, forlorn voice.

With a wavering hand, Gerbert plonked the cup on the trestle. 'Don't say that, sweeting, you've nothing to fear from me. You know I'd not harm you.' His voice was gruff with tenderness, and he gathered her resisting form against his breast. 'Will it help if I snuff the candles?'

Now that the moment was at hand, Miriel lost her nerve. She had intended remaining sober and all-seeing, but suddenly the darkness was a refuge too welcome to resist and she gave a wordless little nod.

Lumbering from the bed, Gerbert extinguished the thick wax night candle on its wrought-iron stand and blew out the smaller cresset lamp on the coffer, thereby plunging the room into complete darkness. Miriel felt his weight settle back on the bed, heard the rapid saw of his breathing, and imagined that she was in the lair of a wild beast.

He turned to her and, as his hands circled her waist and he pressed his body to hers, she realised that he had taken the opportunity of extinguishing the lights to remove his braies.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, I pray to you now in my moment of need. Miriel closed her eyes and clenched her jaw, her entire body rigid with rejection. Gerbert's lips quested at her throat; his beard rubbed her tender skin. Thick fingers plucked at the laces of her chemise, pulled wide, then delved inside to fondle her breasts. Gerbert groaned in the same fashion that she had heard her stepfather groan behind the bed curtain with her mother. He pinched her nipples, rolling them between forefinger and thumb, but Miriel was too revolted and frightened to become aroused.