"A toast!" The command came from Roger, in a loud, forceful voice. Elizabeth glanced up and saw that the vassal held a goblet high above his head. Balanced somewhat precariously on one shoulder was little Thomas, giggling while he held on to the knight's head of hair with both hands.
Geoffrey found himself irritated with the interruption. He had enjoyed the easy banter with his wife and wondered what she was about to say. He forced himself back to the festivities but first whispered to Elizabeth, "Later, wife, you shall tell me these terrible stories about my character later."
Keeping her stare directed on Roger and her brother, Elizabeth answered in a soft voice, "Perhaps, my lord. Perhaps."
A sense of lightness settled over Elizabeth with each sip of the warming wine. In fact, she felt warm all over, inside and out. "Where have you found this wine, my lord? We are unaccustomed to such quality," she said.
"Even when you celebrate?" Geoffrey asked with surprise.
"We drank ale on every occasion," Elizabeth replied. "And shared from each other's trenchers," she added, referring to the wooden plates the servants were placing on the table.
"Your father was a wealthy man," Geoffrey stated.
"Aye, but frugal," Elizabeth said. She laughed then and leaned toward her husband, her hand casually resting over his. "My grandfather used to tease my father something fierce over his tight purse," she confessed in a conspiratorial voice.
"You have a fondness for your grandfather, don't you?" Geoffrey asked, smiling at her behavior.
"Yes, we are very alike," she acknowledged. She took another sip of her wine and smiled at her husband over the rim of her goblet.
"Enough," Geoffrey decreed, removing her goblet. "I want you awake on our wedding night."
His indelicate reminder of what was to come removed Elizabeth 's warmth. The smile faded and she lowered her gaze to her plate. She had eaten but a fraction of the quail pie and none of the swan or the wildberry tarts prepared for the celebration,
She watched as more and more delicacies were placed on the table. There were appreciative ohs and ahs when the cooked peacock, redressed in its skin and feathers, was placed before her. Geoffrey served her after he had washed his hands with the wet cloth his squire provided him. A page assisted Elizabeth.
The priest and several of Geoffrey's thegns joined the couple at the table. Little Thomas was not allowed to sit with them, due to his age and his position, but each time Elizabeth saw him, she noticed that his cheeks were as swollen as a chipmunk's with food. His manners were equal to her dogs, she thought, but soon he would become one of Geoffrey's pages and learn the correct way of things.
Several of the men broke out into verses of a popular and somewhat risque ballad. And then the red-haired squire, flushed with drink, began to sing in a deep baritone voice. The hall quieted and all listened to his song.
His ballad was about the hero Roland and his faithful sword, Joyosa, and how the brave man led the ancient troops to victory. According to the verse, Roland rode well ahead of the invaders, singing in a clear voice while he tossed his sword countless times into the air like a juggler. He was the first to die and offered no resistance. And now he was legend.
To Elizabeth, Roland was foolish indeed. She decided she was not of a romantic nature. Dead was dead, whether one became legend or not. She wondered if Geoffrey would agree with her observation.
"It is time," Geoffrey announced when the song ended and the cheers to Roland's memory subsided. He took her elbow, nodded to her servant, and stood. "Go. I will join you shortly."
Elizabeth wanted to leave, all right, but her destination was the great doors leading to the outside, and not her bedroom. She almost smiled at her childish thoughts of escape. Almost.
She lifted the hem of her gown and followed Sara, keeping within the tight of the torch the servant carried, stopping only once on her way up the curving staircase. She found her husband in the middle of a group of men, watching her. He seemed ignorant of the soldiers' talk, staring intently at his bride. Elizabeth 's heart raced at the sensuous caress, the promise his dark eyes held.
"Mistress?" Sara's voice pulled at her, but Elizabeth couldn't break the force that held her gaze locked with her husband's.
"Yes," she whispered, and then, "I'm coming," but it wasn't until the servant tugged at her elbow that she was able to turn back to the kind woman.
Sara kept up a steady chatter of village news until she had Elizabeth stripped of her garments and a new fire blazing in the hearth. Elizabeth 's hair remained twisted in the ribbon atop her head with several wisps falling and framing the sides of her face. She brushed a loose tendril aside and slipped into the robe the maid held open for her.
Having Sara there, helping her, did much to calm Elizabeth. The day had been quite overwhelming. Elizabeth felt both exhausted and keyed up.
"Your hands are trembling," the old woman remarked. "Is it from joy or fear?"
"Neither," Elizabeth lied. "I am just overly tired. 'Tis been a long day."
"Mistress? Did your mother ever talk to you about the duties of a wife?" Sara asked with a bluntness that made Elizabeth 's cheeks grow warm.
"No," she answered, avoiding Sara's gaze, "but I have overheard stories my sisters exchanged. Besides, a woman doesn't have to do anything, does she?" Her voice held a note of panic, an echo of her inner turmoil.
The servant nodded. "When a man becomes excited, he wishes his mate to respond," she said very matter-of-factly. "I worry that you will make him angry if you-"
"I do not care if he becomes angry or not," Elizabeth replied, straightening her shoulders. "I just hope that he will be quickly done."
"There are ways you can make the deed quick," the servant hinted. She folded back the covers on the bed and turned back to Elizabeth. "But it will take courage… and boldness, my lady."
Elizabeth found herself intrigued with the conversation. Sara wasn't acting the least bit embarrassed by their delicate topic but stood there with a tranquil expression on her face and spoke as if they were discussing new ways of stuffing quail. Sara, Elizabeth reminded herself, was at least three times her own age,. and maybe that was why her attitude was so blase.
"What must I do?" Elizabeth asked, determined to do anything to get the night over and done with.
"Entice him," Sara announced, nodding her head at Elizabeth 's puzzled expression. "He is eager to bed you," she said. "I saw the look in his eyes. Every man has only so much control, mistress. You must-"
The door to the bedroom suddenly opened and Geoffrey filled the entry. Elizabeth was standing in front of the fireplace, unaware that the light from the fire outlined the slender shape of her body through the thin robe. Her stomach knotted at the look in her husband's eyes as he slowly took his fill of her, from the top of her head to the tip of her toes, which peeked out beneath the robe, but she matched his stare and his appraisal and prayed that her trembling would soon stop.
Sara left the room and she was alone with her husband. His gaze was intimidating, and when she could stand it no longer, she turned her back to him, pretending to warm her hands before the fire. Her mind raced for an ending to the discussion she was having with Sara. Entice him? Play the whore? Is that what the servant suggested? No, she decided, she could never do that. And why would enticing speed the deed?
Realizing that she probably looked like she was hiding, Elizabeth slowly turned back to her husband. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, removing his boots and staring at her.
If only he would smile, Elizabeth thought, instead of looking so serious, so intent. She felt like he was trying to see inside her, know her thoughts and feelings, find her soul. And capture it. He looked capable of the task, and Elizabeth almost made the sign of the cross but caught herself in time.