His footsteps upon the stone floor woke her, though perhaps it had been the click of the door shutting behind him. If she slept, he would walk away. Oh the power over her own body! To imitate sleep! To see that unknown space of time and make your breath soft and even. To remain inside yourself and clasp dream so your heart won't speed up and betray you. And to lay still, even after you are certain he is gone so that you may never be found out. Still, until you feel the light of dawn creeping through your eyelids. And then you aren't sure that you ever slept or ever were awake.
Night after night she did this, hoping against hope that he would decide one night not to come. Not to stand over her bed and silently watch as she lay impassive and immobile. He would rarely say anything, in fact he would not even bend close to her. The darkness crept around his feet and closed around him to keep him there.
She had been given to him in marriage by her father. It was a normal thing, the ancient family of du Marne would join with the great house of Sacre-LeVaunche creating the greatest estate in the lower Aquitaine. It was blessed by all the great houses and this daughter of du Marne, now Lady Sacre-LeVaunche, had been handed to the great beast of a knight in a sweltering August ceremony. All had feted well until dawn as she, now a great Lady with all accoutrement, waited in the great room that would be hers until the servants carried her to the crypt below.
Had he staggered in drunk, no doubt she would have been set aside after the act to wait until sons were born. But no, indeed he had come to the solar dressed in his tunic of the bright colors of his house. Had he taken her with the brutality that was his trade, perhaps she would not fein sleep. But no, he had come with a kind regard, a shy smile on his face and in his hands a gift readied for his fair wyfe.
To look at him you would not suggest any manner of experience but that of death and war. He had the face of a hammer, wanting little in kindness except the turn of his brow seemed to possess laughter tangled in it's midst. In his eyes there was a hardness that sorted itself out with the blunted nose and full lips that were a family trademark. (Will my children have those lips, wondered the Lady Sacre-LeVaunche that night). His chin, broad and bearing rather more than a few scars, seemed to suggest mallet in the final analysis. The Lady sat in her bower waiting until he approached the bedside. He set the box upon the bed and nodded with this odd smile on his face.
With her delicate fingers, born of generations of du Marne men carefully choosing brides with rare beauty, she unwrapped the package. Inside was the fresh heart of an ox, but he only said: "I give you my heart."
Her screams split the hall through and through. She pushed the warm heart onto the floor and scrambled from the bed. It appeared she did not yet understand the Sacre-LeVaunche humor as her maids and ladies gathered her into their fine care and escorted her to another room in the great castle. And this became her new room. Her marriage yet to consumate, her husband unwilling to force her.
For days she sobbed. Though she could not expect anything more than punishment, she prayed at chapel morning, midday and night for him to send her to a nunnery, to repudiate her and send her back to her father. To return to the house of du Marne, even with head held low and no chance for any good marriage. Ever. No, any would be better than to have this brute bringing her the steaming heart from some ox! Her ladies formed a curtain around her as she strode from chapel to room, from room to chapel.
Lord Sacre-LeVaunche merely watched, his brow laughing but the eyes and mouth pressed in grim visage. With little regard for this gaggle of ladies his wife employed, he went to her solar one cool afternoon. He instructed them to return to the house of du Marne or they would be removed to the kitchen. His lady, he said quite pleasantly, was in her own home and would be safe enough traveling from her room to the chapel and back again.
The Lady Sacre-Levaunche merely looked down onto the back of her hands folded in her lap. And the ladies who minded her and the maids quailed with fear, anger and affront. In the morning they were off with an escort of fine knights who saw them safely home. The Lady watched out her window as the train of people left and settled down to her needlework. She would wait, if she must, until this man asked her pardon for such a brutish gift. And so the winter slipped into the valley, dusting the trees and grass with at first frost then snow. And still no word. Still the nights of sleepless sleeping.
One day a hag came to beg at the gates of the keep. The Lady Sacre-LeVauche asked her to come in and perhaps could tell her fortune. The hag had been bent and withered with time, but her pride was high and bore the noble mein of someone who knew comfort in her youth. When the Lady asked this the hag laughed heartily.
"Such an eye for one so young! I was the Lady Oreun, from a noble house, though small, from the valley of that same name. I tell you that you see my aged body, but know that I was once so proud my father found me three knights to set my heart upon!"
The Lady Oreun settled before the fire, and courteously took the proffered food and hot wine. She eyed the young Lady Sacre-LeVaunche with a knowing look and chortled softly, "you are still a virgin pure, and yet you are lady of this great house? How is it that you retain such a chaste existence? No, no, do not tell me that your Lord goes on Crusade? I think I saw many of his men upon that yon hill working their fine destriers!"
The young Lady blushed but told nothing of the heart, the steps of her husband into her room, nor even the dismissal of all of her ladies. She only asked the Lady Oreun to tell her of her three suiters.
"Ah! Such a set of men! My father had a good eye for honor and nobility. The first was from a great house, greater than this one, though he was a younger brother and this way I would stay in my own home. Oh this man had a fine beauty and a quick wit. He courted me with poetry and songs from his own hand. I was fairly blind with love for him. My father sent him away and I never saw him again. Ah, my sore heart! I did cry for a week!
"The second was the only son of a modest vassal with loyalty to his Lord and a full set of loyal men to call at his will. He could battle any who came but never had a meanness to him. I, naturally, fell in love with him, but was arrogant and without gentle ways of wooing. My father sent him away as well. How to tell you of my sorrow? I learned that he later fought for and won land adjacent to his own, and the King suddenly found that he was indispensible to him.
"As to the last, my husband for many years, was a brute of a man to his enemies. He rode from dawn to dusk and served his liege well. I was given him in marriage when my father saw I would not marry at all wisely, but gasp and mewl over them saving no honor for my own. Oh but this one, I kept not a care for this one in that manner of courtly love. We had two sons, fine young men, but now dead. He cared for me as though I were a queen. Though in fact he was little more than a knight with a small demesne, and even that he had only later in his life.
"It was on the day that he died that I knew I'd loved him best of all. He always had patience with me. He smiled each time he saw me, though I was big with child or sick with a fever. And laughter was all the while with us. Oh my dear, here I am, old woman with nothing but memories. And I am a Lady no longer. My husband is dead and are my sons. I will not go into a nunnery, nay! To pray for heaven all my days? I had a bit of it here and though I will die on a roadside, it will be a happy death!"
The woman rose to go, but the Lady Sacre-LeVaunche insisted that she stay the night and rest inside in the warmth. The Lady called for her servent who set a warm cot beside a fire in a small room near the hall and brought out more food. The Lady Sacre-LeVaunche excused herself and went to find her husband.
Pride tastes bitter and metallic as you swallow it in large bites. It is the first bite which makes the eyes water and the heart race. With but a few steps the Lady found herself at the gate of the keep, with a nod it opened before her. She walked out to the hillside where her husband and his men practiced their art, tested their stamina and worked their horses. Her breath came in hard gasps as she marched fast along the snow covered grass.
Lord Sacre-LeVaunche saw the small figure of his wife, only just realizing it was his wife, at the brow of the hill. Her cheeks were red, her eyes down and her mantle wrapped tightly about her. He noticed for the first time the length of her blonde hair loose about her, her coif undone and unkept. At this he dismounted, sure she was to announce her full rebellion demanding he set her aside so she could return to her father's house. As her crisp steps in the snow accosted his ears he was sure he would find a deep rending of his heart, to lose this small blossem, this rare beauty who was now his, his own flower. Even though he bore not one handsome bone, his ham fists, his scarred face, his boorish act of love, he thought, desperately, that perhaps he could convince her to stay. A promise perhaps....
She stood before him, raising her eyes slowly up to his hard gaze, and began to kneel before him, in the snow, wetting her bliaute and chainse, and said "I give you my heart."
He stepped back, agog at this sight. She put a hand out, mouthed the word "no" as he seemed to fall away from her. By now his men were still, watching, only their horses heavy breathing, billowing clouds of breath, the jangle of bits filled the air. He righted himself, then kneeled down into the snow before her, gathering her into his arms, feeling her softness, feeling her yield, and for the first time he felt her heart against his.
