Winter Song by Roberta Gellis Read Free Book Online Page B

fair body—”
    “I certainly have,” Raymond agreed with enthusiasm.
    Alys giggled. “I have a few on yours, also, but I fear not
the same as yours on mine. Raymond, you stink like the garderobe. I will have a
bath made ready as soon as you are warm enough. Is your servant bringing up
your clothes?”
    “I have outstripped them,” Raymond said, beginning to laugh
again. “None of the horses could keep pace with Gros Choc, and I would not
wait. I have nothing but what I am standing in. If you do not tike the way I
smell, you will have to give me clothing.”
    “I am beginning to doubt that you have any clothes beyond
what I give you,” Alys chuckled. “And you never give them back, either.”
    “My mother’s maids must have thrown them out, or given them
to the servants,” Raymond said carelessly. He was watching Alys’s face closely,
still amazed that no matter how beautiful he remembered her to be, she was
always lovelier in actuality. An expression of anger or anxiety drew his
attention from her perfect features back to what he had said. “Do you care
about the clothes, Alys?” he asked. “I am very sorry. I should have thought—”
    “I suppose the rich have no need to consider such things as
odd tunics and shirts, but I was never rich, Raymond. We have no contract, no
vows have been made. I had hoped you would have stayed longer in your home and
considered again whether you wish to marry me.”
    “Alys, what have I done? Will you turn me away for some
patched shirts and chausses? I will give you ten garments for each one lost.
Good God, I see I am making you angrier with each word. What have I said?”
    “Nothing wrong according to your lights, Raymond, but can
you not see how unfit we are for each other? I will always worry about
too-small things, things beneath your notice—”
    “But you are right. One should not be wasteful. You will
teach me, my love, and I will learn—”
    “But it is not a question of right and wrong,” Alys
interrupted desperately. “In your world those garments are only fit for
servants. In mine they are what is worn by better folk every day. Try to
understand—”
    “I do not want to understand anything, except—do you love
me, Alys?”
    She was silent, her eyes fixed on his thin, bitterly hurt
face. “Yes,” she sighed, “I do love you. If you were a poor, penniless knight,
I would follow you barefoot through the world. I would cook for you and sew for
you and, if need be, carry your goods on my back if you had no packhorse. But I
am afraid, Raymond, afraid I will shame you.”
    “No!”
    “You love me, and you cry no, but I do not understand your
way of living. I knew no better than to send you away with those old things of
Harold’s…”
    “Alys, do not talk so silly. I was at court, wearing King
Henry’s clothes. I could have taken what I wanted from what he lent me. I never
thought of it myself.”
    “Men do not think of such things. It is a woman’s place to
see that her man is fittingly attired.”
    “Nonsense!” Raymond laughed. “My mother would not think of
studying my father’s court cupboards. His servants—”
    “Not even that!” Alys cried. “Raymond, I will go demented.
What am I to do all day?”
    “Whatever you wish, my love. Alys, all that matters is that
you love me and I love you. Everything else will be arranged. Beloved, I swear
I will remake the world for you if I must. Do not deny me. How can you say you
love me and yet bear to part with me?”
    “To save you hurt and shame—” she began.
    But he did not allow her to finish. For answer, he seized
her and kissed her. She was rigid at first, pushing at him, but her strength
was nothing compared with his, and soon she yielded. Her lips grew warm, and
she felt strangely lightheaded and weak. Raymond’s lips had left her mouth and
wandered to her chin, then under it. Alys drew a shuddering breath just before
his mouth closed on hers again, and her hands, which had crept out