Free The Wagered Wench by Georgia Fox Page B

As they walked back down the winding path to the great hall, the rain began to fall harder until the wedding party was drenched and Elsinora’s bridal garland of blossoms shattered, petals tumbling down her hair—left loose today at the Norman’s command. She clung to her posy of flowers, bending against a sudden gust of wind that almost swept her off her feet. It caught her skirt and slapped the thin, rain-soaked wool against her legs.
    When the onslaught of wind held her to a sharp halt on the path, her new husband picked her up swiftly and carried her onward, without a word. His breathing was steady, his pace quick, despite the burden in his arms. As her hand rested on his shoulder she felt the heat of his hard muscle, evident even through the tunic he wore. Her fingers lingered a little longer than they should, until she remembered that people were watching, eager to see her tamed by the Norman.
    Ha! That, she could promise them all, they would never see. He might bed her, but he would never tame her. Never. She withdrew her hand.
    Inside the hall he set her on her feet again and, still without a word to his new bride, untangled the wind wrecked flowers from her hair. Minstrels brought from Marazion now began to play, filling the hall with a lively tune as the food was carried in and folk took their seats at the long trestle tables. Usually, Elsinora had the seat on her father’s left side, but today that spot was claimed by the Norman and he led her to the bench on his left side. No one but she cared, of course. Not even her father seemed to notice the loss of his daughter beside him. Instead he chatted merrily at her husband, quickly becoming inebriated.
    “Try Elsinora’s wine, Dominic,” he exclaimed, summoning a maid with the jug.
    She glared at her father. “He does not care for my wine,” she snapped, remembering how the Norman insulted it the night he first arrived in Lyndower.
    Dominic turned his head to look at her. “Perhaps I might yet grow to have a taste for it, my lady Elzinora. I did not know it came from such fair hands when first I tasted it. Now I must have a new appreciation for the product of my wife’s labors. As she will have an appreciation for all mine. Soon.” Was that a devious gleam in his eye? She had no time to study it, for he turned his face away again immediately to talk with her father.
    The villagers were soon dancing in the center of the hall, making a merry ruckus. Her head began to hurt. She saw the grinning faces whirl by, heard the stomp of feet, felt the rush of air that accompanied each couple. But the crowd seemed very distant, because all she could think about was the marriage bed waiting for her. It was the same bed that had belonged to her parents. Gudderth now slept on a smaller bed, having packed the bridal bed away in a store shed after his wife died. With great ceremony, he had brought all the pieces out and had it reassembled a few days ago. Now it lurked in wait behind a tapestry curtain at the far end of the hall. It was as much privacy as the newlyweds could expect. Gudderth had offered the use of his private chamber, but the Norman politely refused. He would not, he’d said to Elsinora, turn a sick old man out of his bedchamber, just to sleep with his new bride in privacy. Soon the couple of honor would be escorted to that bed amid many crude jokes and then the curtain would be drawn across—their only shield from the continuing merriment in the hall.
    She picked up her wine goblet and took a fortifying gulp. He was right, she thought with a sigh, the wine was bloody awful.
    What if she was equally bad at other things? Sometimes it seemed to Elsinora as if everything she tried to do was a miserable failure.
    Again her gaze searched through the crowd and beyond to where that tapestry bed curtain swayed slightly in a rush of air caused by the stampeding dancers. She took another gulp of wine, wincing at the bitter taste, in need of something to wet her