Fire Song (Medieval Song 2)

“A . . . lady,” she said in a taut voice. “She told me that you . . . that men were demanding and cared not about a woman’s pain. She told me I must bear it.”

Graelam cursed long and fluently, the more foul of his curses thankfully whipped away by the wind. “This lady,” he said finally in a very calm voice, “was wrong to say such a thing to you, and she lied.” He sighed, knowing he had not been truthful. “There are some men who are not interested in a woman’s feelings, but not all men are like that.”

Kassia turned wide, innocent eyes to his face. “Are you like these men, my lord?”

“I will not hurt you,” he said.

She remembered his huge naked body, his swollen member thrusting toward her. She remembered his strange abruptness with her that morning. She said nothing.

“Perhaps you misunderstood this lady,” he said. “There is a bit of pain the first time when your maidenhead is rent. But if the man is gentle, pleasure quickly follows and the pain is forgotten.”

She was gazing at him, disbelief written clearly in her eyes.

“There is no reason for you to disbelieve me. I am your husband.”

“You are . . . different from me,” she whispered.

“Aye, God willed it so.” His voice was clipped, for his patience was near an end. Still, it bothered him that she should fear coupling. “Kassia, you have seen animals mate.” She continued staring at him, mute. “You have seen me naked. My rod will enter you. Do you understand?”

“I have seen a stallion cover a mare. Will it be like that?”

He wanted to laugh. “Sometimes,” he said. “But usually you will be on your back, beneath me.”

“Oh,” she gasped, her cheeks flushed.

“The proof will be in the doing,” he said, and rose.

She stared up at him. He blocked out the sun, and she shuddered.

“Kassia,” he said, “you cannot remain a child. Come, it is time to return.” He stretched out his hand to her. She hesitated a moment, then thrust her hand into his. “Your hand is cold,” he said as he drew her to her feet. He pulled her against him. She was stiff as a board. Slowly he began to stroke his hands down her back. “A wife is her husband’s responsibility,” he said. “I will take care of you.” He felt her ease against him and lay her cheek trustingly against his chest. “Tonight you will become a wife. No, don’t stiffen.” He smiled over the top of her head. “Did you not tell me that your father trusted me to be kind to you?”

He felt her hesitation, then felt her nose nodding up and down against him. “It is not your monthly flux, is it?”

He heard a small gasp; then she shook her head, burrowing her face into his tunic.

“Look at me, Kassia.” When she hesitated, he gently cupped her chin and raised her face upward. “Now, hold still and relax.” He touched his fingertips to her lips, then slowly lowered his head.

Kassia jumped when his mouth touched hers. It was not unpleasant. His lips were warm and firm. She felt his tongue glide over her lower lip, and she frowned, wondering at the s

udden spurt of warmth low in her belly. She felt his fingers tangling in her hair; then he released her. “That was not so bad, was it?”

“Nay,” she admitted, her head cocked to one side, her eyes studying his face intently. “My stomach feels warm. It is very odd. I’ve never felt that before.”

He grinned, a boyish grin that made him look very young. “Come,” he said. He lifted her onto her mare’s back and swung into his own saddle. During their ride back to Wolffeton, he wondered at himself. Never had he had such a discussion with a woman. But there was something so vulnerable about Kassia, and it made him furious at himself, yet still protective of her. He supposed it was simply her candid innocence that made him babble on like a chivalrous fool, or, he thought, his lips twisting in a rueful smile, a besotted father. Oddly, he did not want her to fear coupling with him. He would arouse passion in her, he had the skill and he would force himself to patience. She was young, malleable, and he did not doubt that she would be easily molded into an obedient, gentle wife. The future stretched out pleasantly before him in his mind.

Graelam wooed his young wife that evening. He gave her all of his attention at dinner, ensuring that she drank two goblets of sweet wine and ate most of the spicy stew that he shared with her. And he touched her, light caresses that brought color to her cheeks.

“You have eaten almost enough,” he said, and sopped a bit of bread in the remainder of the stew and fed it to her himself. She smiled at him and he felt an unusual warmth pervade him. He drew a deep breath, and it was her sweet scent that filled his nostrils. Her chestnut curls glowed with reddish glints in the rushlight.

“My hair will grow,” Kassia said, aware that he was staring at her.

He wrapped a loose curl around his fingers. “Your hair is so soft,” he said. “As fine as a babe’s.”

A dimple he had not noticed before deepened beside her mouth. “But, my lord,” she said impishly, “you do not want a babe for your wife.”

He chuckled and ruffled her curls. “You are right, my lady, particularly tonight.”

Her eyes widened, but she did not draw away from him. He was pleased. He turned and nodded to a minstrel, Louis, a Frenchman he had invited to stay at his castle in Cornwall for several days. The small darkeyed man, sun-baked from his travels, had been playing softly throughout the meal, and now moved forward to sit on a stool in front of Graelam’s daised table. He smiled toward Kassia and played several haunting cords on his lute. “To your lovely bride from Brittany, my lord,” he said, and bowed his head, strumming the strings lightly. “I have christened it Fire Song.”