Bertrice Small - The Innocent

"We cannot," he replied.

"Why not?" Elf demanded, quite outraged. She had been longing for his passion for several months now, and was eager.

"Sister Winifred says you must heal from the birth," he told her firmly. "I would take her advice and not injure you, petite."

"By the rood!" Elf swore, surprising him. "I am not in the convent any longer!"

He chuckled wickedly. "Do you want me as much as I want you, petite? It is torture knowing I must wait." He caressed her hair.

"But you will be gone in a month’s time!" Elf wailed.

"We may cohabit the week before I go."

"And then you will ride off to Normandy, my lord, and I am left behind longing for you," Elf said half angry. "You cannot even say how long you will be gone!"

"Would you rather we did not-"

"Nay!" she said furiously.

"Would you prefer that I sleep elsewhere until we may be together again, petite?"

"Nay!" She burrowed herself against his broad shoulder.

"I thought you had been taught self-denial as a nun," he teased her, tipping her face up. "It is much easier to be good when you don't know how much fun being bad is, isn't it, petite?"

"I hate you," Elf muttered, smacking him lightly on his cheek.

Ranulf laughed and caught her hand, kissing the palm. "Have you any idea of how jealous I am of our son?"

"Why would you be jealous of Simon?" she asked, then she blushed. "Ohh!"

"Go to sleep now, petite," he told her. "And be satisfied in knowing the waiting is no easier for me than it is for you."

"Good!" Elf told him, caressing him in a delicate spot before rolling over and turning her back to him.

Ranulf laughed again. "Witch," he said softly, and moving onto his side he drew her back against him, his big hand clamped firmly about one of her breasts.

"That’s not fair!" Elf protested.

"What?" He feigned innocence.

In reply Elf ground her buttocks into his groin suggestively.

He groaned as he felt himself beginning to seethe with desire. "That’s not fair!" he complained.

"Two can play at the same game, my lord," she replied dulcetly.

"Go to sleep, Eleanore," he said through gritted teeth.

"Yes, my lord," Elf replied sweetly. His hand upon her breast was both taunting and comforting. She longed for their bodies to be joined, but she knew Sister Winifred was right. Her body was still weak and sore from Simon’s birth. Where was the patience she had always prided herself upon in her convent days? She must surely regain it quickly or she would expire from her own desire. She felt Ranulf’s soft kiss upon the nape of her neck and, sighing, closed her eyes.

During the next few weeks, their lives returned to a semblance of normalcy. Ranulf rode out daily to survey the manor. His great concern was for Ashlin’s safety, and in this he became more and more convinced that his lands would not be totally safe until Ashlin possessed a strong castle. The walls that surrounded the demesne were high, but they encompassed too open an area-his own house, the church, the huts of his serfs, and the cottages of his freedmen and upper servants. The assemblage was, in truth, a sprawling village. His walls could be breached by anyone with serious intent to do so, leaving his people wide open to the attackers.

The house offered little more protection for his family. It sat upon the flat earth, and once its door was broken in, its inhabitants were vulnerable. Still, Ashlin was better defended now than it had been. The walls were higher, the men-at-arms better trained. He must trust Fulk and his agreement with the Welsh to leave the manor in peace.

As he considered all of this, Ranulf realized that his mission for Duke Henry was of vast importance to his future, and that of his family. Perhaps he might even foster out Simon one day to the new queen’s household, as Elf had suggested when their son was born. The lord of a castle had more social standing than the lord of a simple manor. He laughed, knowing that he was aiming very, very high in his ambitions. First they needed permission for a castle to be built at Ashlin. To that end he would strive.

The growing season was proving to be a good one so far. The rains had been plentiful, but gentle. The days warm, the nights cool, yet not cold. The grain was growing well. They waited eagerly for dry weather during which they could cut the hay that would be used for the next twelve months. Elf’s garden of herbs flourished by her herbarium. The sheep and the cattle grew fat on the sweet grass.

Midsummer’s Eve was upon them before they knew it. There would be a fine celebration, of course. The lord of the manor declared a holiday, as was customary. Many at Ashlin rose early to view the sunrise. As it was a fair day, the sight was glorious. The sky lightened slowly, the deep blue of night growing to a brighter shade, the horizon warming: lemon at first, then gold, purple, and orange. The birds began to sing and chirp even as the sun pushed itself above the border between earth and sky, blazing fiery and red. It was going to be the perfect summer’s day.

Already from the bake house the scent of St. John’s bread baking wafted on the soft breeze. Made from locust seedpods, it was a delicacy served only at the Midsummer’s Eve feast, which would be hosted for the entire manor by the lord and lady of Ashlin. The sheep selected for the feast were driven from the near meadow close to two pits, dug out of the meadow grass, where they would be roasted. Meat was not an everyday occurrence for the serfs. Piglings, stuffed with cheese, bread, nuts, and spices would be served along with a roe deer. Entrayale, a sheep’s stomach filled with eggs, cheese, vegetables, bread, and pork was baking, along with Black-manger, a dish of chicken, rice, almonds, and sugar. There would be spiced lamprey eels, creamed cod, and salmon. There would be a special Frumenty pudding of apples and spices added to wheat, sugar, and milk. There was cheese and butter and curd cheese. And special Destiny Cakes, shaped like common items such as birds, beasts, houses, ships, and household items. There was mead flavored with honey and mint; Cuckoo-foot ale, a sparkling beverage made with ginger, basil, and anise.

Some wandering musicians had come to the manor the evening before asking for shelter. Now they set themselves up to entertain for the lord and lady. They played upon a rebec, drums, frestelles, which were panpipes, a pibgorn, a reed instrument, bells, and a tambourine. Their tunes were lively, and dancers pranced gaily upon the green. Archery butts were set up for shooting contests. Footraces were run. The young girls played Saint-John's-Wort, using sprigs of the plant and its deep yellow flowers to determine if they would have true love or no love at all. There was a great deal of giggling when Willa’s flowers ended with a loves me, and glances were cast in the direction of the young squire, Pax, followed by more giggles while Willa blushed red. A hunt was held for St. John’s fern, which was said to render its finder invisible at will, but sadly none was found.

"Come to the wet fire ceremony," Arthur cried to them as the early evening came.

The manor’s inhabitants hurried to the millpond, where small wooden boats were already prepared, a wish previously carved on each boat by its owner. Lighted candles were carefully placed in the miniature vessels, which were then set afloat upon the waters of the millpond. The mill wheel turned, ruffling the surface of the pond and its adjacent stream. The tiny ships bobbed across their tiny sea, some sinking when they found themselves too near the wheel, others having their candles blown out. But those boats that safely gained the other side of the millpond with their candles still alight guaranteed their owners that their wishes would be fulfilled.

"Both of our boats have arrived safely," Elf said, smiling. "What did you wish for?"

"To come quickly back to you," he said. "What did you wish for, petite?"

"The same thing," she said softly, reaching for his hand.

"The bonfires are being lit!" came a cry, and hand in hand the lord and lady of the manor walked back to the meadow.

The fires sprang up around them as they seated themselves at their trestle again. The long day was finally waning. The last of the feast was consumed along with ale and mead. The sunset blazed pink, purple, orange, green, and gold beyond the western hills. The musicians began to play again, even as Cedric nodded a signal to his lord and lady. Elf and Ranulf stood up. With Ranulf leading, Elf took his hand and that of Willa, who took the hand of Ranulf’s squire, Pax, who took another hand which took another, and another. Together they all danced in a line, weaving about and among the several fires in an ancient dance called "Threading the Needle." The sun sank away. The sky above them grew dark. The music grew wilder, more primitive until suddenly without warning it stopped. About them was silence. There was not a single sound. Then the fires were quickly doused, and Ashlin’s people moved off silently into the night. Some returned to their homes. Young lovers simply slipped off into the darkness. The lord took his lady’s hand, and led her indoors. Midsummer’s Eve was over, and tomorrow was a working day.

"Willa has gone off," Ida muttered disapprovingly. "I will see to your needs, my lady."

"Nay, find your bed, old woman," Ranulf said quietly. "I can help my wife undress as well as you can."

"And have more fun doing it, too, lord" came the ribald answer. "Heh! Heh!"

He chuckled, then still hand in hand they entered the solar, leaving the rest of the world behind them.

Elf turned and slipped her arms about her husband’s neck, looking up into his face. "Soon you will be gone from me to Normandy," she said softly. "I know not how long you will be gone. I am bold, I know, Ranulf, but I would have you make love to me. It has been so long since our bodies were last joined in passion." Her sweet glance was warm, and her silvery gray eyes shone with her open desire for him.

"I would not hurt you," he replied.

Elf laughed softly. "I vow, my lord, you are the kindest man I have ever known, which, of course, is not saying a great deal as I have known no other but you. If I did not know better, I would be certain that you had a lover among the serfs. But I do know better," she hastily amended seeing his startled look. "Ranulf, my lord, my good husband, I have from the beginning enjoyed the pleasures our bodies give us. We have not had that pleasure in months now, and you are about to go off in a few days to Normandy for an indeterminate length of time. Do you not think we might indulge ourselves until then? I have healed quickly, thanks to my herbs and teas." She smiled winningly up at him, and her hand caressed his cheek. "Do you not want to make love to me? Perhaps it is not as difficult for a man as it is for a woman. I must by my own honor and nature remain chaste while you are gone; but perhaps that is not the case with you. Perhaps when you reach Duke Henry’s court, you will indulge your lusts with some beautiful and elegant woman of the court!" Her eyes suddenly flashed, and Elf stamped her foot angrily. "By the rood, I will not have it!" She began to pound upon his chest with her small, balled-up fists.

He laughed aloud. He couldn't help it. She had gone from being alluring and seductive in one moment to being furiously jealous the next. Was it possible that she cared for him? Ranulf’s heart beat faster as he caught her wrists in a gentle, but firm grip.

"Petite," he said, "I will never betray you no matter my own hungers, for there is but one woman I desire in all the world, and that woman is you, Eleanore." Pulling her against his broad chest, he nuzzled her soft hair. "You, petite, are my wife. I need no other." His lips brushed hers.

Somewhat mollified, she kissed him back, her fingers all the while fumbling to loosen the girdle about his tunic.

His laughter was now lower and more intimate. "You are quite shameless, petite," he teased her. "I can see you will have your way with me, Eleanore." He helped her to draw the tunic over his head. Then, reaching out, he loosed her girdle, his fingers pulling her tunic off. Her skirt fell quickly to the floor, puddling about her ankles.