Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

I t was her first big feast.

After an afternoon that saw her sleep for several hours, Grier had been awakened by Euphemia because Dane had come to tell her that a feast in her honor was soon to be held. Groggy, but wanting to do what was expected of her, Grier had climbed out of the very large bed that belonged to Dane to prepare for the evening meal.

It was an event that Dane had known was coming and he'd tried to prepare her for it. Because of what had happened the night before at the inn, he'd seen that she ate frequently throughout the day, explaining that might help her fragile belly if she kept it full with something light. The gruel in the morning had been followed by soft bread a few hours later, and an apple after that, and then more apples and cheese. He'd ridden with her most of the time, handing her food, and making conversation.

In fact, nearly the entire ride to Shrewsbury, Grier had been chewing on one thing or another, but sparingly, and it had all stayed down. Therefore, in spite of the emotional and exhausting day, the lure of a real feast had her interest.

So did spending more time with Dane.

As she staggered out of bed, a real bed that she hardly wanted to leave, Euphemia was already in motion. She was a woman who knew how to get things done, at an inn or in a castle, and she knew how to boss the servants around, and how to get hot water and a tub sent up to her lady's chamber immediately. As Grier stood in the dented copper tub and yawned, Euphemia cleaned her up with warm water and rags that had been rubbed with more lemon-smelling soap.

Grier had never bathed so much in her entire life as she had in the past two days, but it was something she very quickly became accustomed to. She also became accustomed to being without her clothes on, a fear that had evaporated at an alarming rate with the lure of a hot bath. This new world she found herself part of may have been overwhelming and, at times, uncomfortable but hot water on her body was something she quickly came to like. With her hair piled on top of her head, Euphemia scrubbed and rubbed, but when it came to Grier's back, she slowed her enthusiasm.

"Does it hurt ye when I scrub, my lady?" the old woman asked.

Grier wasn't sure what she meant. "Nay, it does not hurt," she said. "You've not hurt me at all."

The servant could see that she didn't know what she meant and she gingerly touched the scars on the lady's back.

"Here, my lady," she said quietly. "The scars on yer backside– do they hurt ye?"

Grier sobered dramatically as she realized what the old woman meant. Much like her hatred for her father, the damage to her back was something she kept buried and forgotten. Although she'd never actually seen it, Eolande had told her that the scars were terrible, scars that had come from the many beatings when she'd first arrived at St. Idloes as a frightened six-year-old girl. After all of these years, they'd simply become a part of her. Out of sight, out of mind.

She didn't even think about them anymore.

"Nay," she said after a moment. "They do not hurt me."

Euphemia continued with the rag and the soap, but it was with far less force than she had with the rest of Grier's body. Grier simply stood there, feeling the rubbing and the buffing, feeling the warm water pour over her as it rinsed her clean.

Those scars…

She wished the old woman hadn't reminded her of them.

"What has yer husband said about them, my lady?" Euphemia cut into her thoughts.

Grier watched a bird as it flew past the chamber window. "He has said nothing because he has not seen them."

Euphemia came around front, wrapping a big linen towel around her. "He's not seen them?" she repeated, surprised. "But… but he's yer husband. He is supposed to see all of ye."

Grier looked at the old woman, thinking that she was probably right. But the truth was that she knew nothing about a marriage, or about a relationship between a man and a woman. She was so very ignorant, raised in an isolated convent, but she suspected that if Euphemia knew that a husband should see all of her, then she probably knew even more than that about the ways of men and women. It wasn't as if the nuns could teach her anything, and she'd had no one to ask. As Euphemia pulled her out of the tub and had her sit down, Grier turned to the old woman.

"I am sure you are correct when you say that he has a right to see all of me, but he has not," she said. "Euphemia, I have spent nearly my entire life surrounded by nuns. My marriage to the duke was both unexpected and unwelcome, at least at first. But I have come to see that he is a kind man and he is trying hard to please me. I want to please him, too, but I am forced to admit that I know virtually nothing about marriage. Are you married?"

Euphemia was drying her skin about the neck and shoulders. "I was, once," she said. "One of those big, strong, redheaded men. He had a temper to match."

"Was he cruel?"

The old woman smiled faintly. "Not much, my lady," he said. "Oh, I'm sure I deserved his anger, when he was angry at me. It ‘twas that anger that caused his heart to give out a few years ago. Men like my Bodell aren't meant to be sane and rational."

Grier looked at her. "But you did marry him," she said, trying to find the correct words to ask what was a very embarrassing question. "The duke and I have married, but nothing more. What I mean to say is that we've not… we've not done what it is that men and women do to have children."

Euphemia understood, grinning with her yellowed teeth on display. "Ah," she said. "Do ye not know what to do when ye take a man to yer bed, then?"

Grier's cheeks were flaming already with the subject, made worse by that question. "Nay," she admitted. "I… I have seen dogs mate. We had dogs around the convent, but you must understand I lived with women who did not… there were no men around to speak of. I do not believe anyone knew what to do in a man's bed. If they did, they never spoke of it to me."

Euphemia finished drying her arms and pulled out a small phial of oil that Dane had purchased in Welshpool. It smelled of flowers and she put a sparing amount on her hands, rubbing them together and them smoothing them onto Grier's skin.

"Then I shall tell ye," she said confidently. "First, yer husband is to kiss ye. Has he done that yet?"

Grier was feeling freakish and humiliated. "Not yet."

Euphemia gave her a rather sympathetic look and continued. "Well," she said, "when he does, what follows is important. A man comes to yer bed and the fleshy sword betwixt his legs becomes long and hard. He takes it and stabs it into yer body."

Grier's eyes widened at the shock of that mental image. "Where does he stab it?"

"Anywhere he pleases," Euphemia said, as if such a thing was completely normal. "If he wants to put it in yer mouth, then ye let him. If he wants to put it anywhere else, ye'll still let him. But if ye want a child, then he stabs it betwixt yer legs."

That caused Grier's eyes to widen even more. "Be… between my legs?"

Euphemia nodded. "That's why God gave ye a fleshy flower, my lady," she said. "Ye bleed monthly, don't ye?"

Oh, what a horrifying subject they were on, but in the interest of learning what was expected of her, Grier nodded. "Aye," she said hesitantly. "Why?"

Euphemia merely nodded, not feeling the same horror about the conversation that Grier was. It was a subject she had no reservations on speaking about.

"Because that blood means ye can bear a child," she said. "Yer husband will stab ye with his fleshy sword, but the first time he does it, there will be some pain. Ye must be prepared for it, but don't cry out. Don't make a fuss. He'll stab ye a few more times with it and then the fleshy sword spits right into yer womb. And then, in time, the bleeding will stop and a baby will come."

It all sounded shocking and vulgar to Grier, and certainly something to be feared. In fact, she was quite repulsed by what she was told, but she was also grateful that at least someone was telling her what she should know. In all of the years she spent at St. Idloes, the subject had never been discussed because it was purely taboo. The ways of men and women were never brought up. Now, Grier knew why, and she had to wonder why women married at all if this was what they had to go through.

She was soon to find out for herself.

"I see," she said, pondering the idea of spitting fleshy swords. "Thank you for telling me."

Euphemia patted her on the shoulder. "Ye'll do fine, lass," she said. "Not to worry. Yer husband seems to be the kind sort, so I'm sure he'll be careful with ye. Now, what dress do ye want to wear tonight?"

Off of one subject and on to another, so swiftly that the old woman had to ask twice before Grier could focus. Even as she selected the emerald silk, her mind was still on what she'd been told about the mating of a man and a woman. It sounded violent, messy, and painful.

She wasn't looking forward to it.

As Euphemia finished dressing her, Grier's thoughts were wrapped up in the situation in general and, truthfully, the future. She worried over what Dane would think of her, being as ignorant as she was about the ways of men and women, but she also worried about the scarring on her back that Euphemia had mentioned. Surely the man would find that extremely distasteful, so she knew she was going to have to make sure he couldn't see it. She would simply lay on her back for whatever fleshy sword stabbing had to take place. It began to occur to her just how ignorant she really was when it came to the world at large.

But she was ready to learn.

She had to.

By the time she was dressed in the green silk, with her hair braided and pinned, the sun had set completely and the smells of the cooking fires wafted in through the arched windows. Euphemia was putting more perfumed oil on her shoulders, and it was then that Grier caught a glimpse of something shiny in the woman's hand. When she turned to look to see what it was, Euphemia held it up in her face.

"There, now," the old woman said with satisfaction. "Take a look at yerself, my lady."

Grier found herself looking into a glass hand mirror, and the reflection she saw was the first time she'd ever seen a clear reflection of herself. Stunned, Grier slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the gasp as pale skin, hazel eyes, and a sweet face came into view. Tears stung her eyes.

"That… that is me?" she asked hoarsely.

Euphemia smiled. "It ‘tis, love," she said, touched at the girl's reaction. "Do ye like it, then?"

Grier nodded, blinking away the tears. Then, she took the mirror from the old woman and just looked at herself, studying the lines of her face, the color of her hair. She'd never seen herself in such detail before and it was truly an astonishing moment.

"I… I have never seen myself like this," she murmured, turning her head from side to side.

Euphemia watched her. "Ye're a lovely lass," she said with confidence. "Ye make a fine duchess."

Grier's hand moved from her mouth to her hair, touching it carefully. "Where did you learn to do this?"

Euphemia shrugged. "I know a thing or two about fine women," she said. "I've seen them come through the inn and there were times when I helped them. Also, I have daughters, who are grown now. I used to tend them when they were younger."

Grier turned to catch a glimpse of the hair net that was covering the braided bun at the nape of her neck. It was such a pivotal moment, in truth; having never really seen herself clearly, and having spent most of her life cold and dirty and clad in rough woolens, Grier had ceased to think of herself as a woman. Merely an oblate, meant for God, and that wasn't a creature that was particularly womanly. But at this moment, she saw a woman before her.

Nay, a beautiful woman.

It was something she'd never imagined she would see, and for the first time in her life, Grier was caught up in her appearance. She was still looking at herself when there was a knock on the door and Euphemia went to answer it.

Dane stood in the doorway. With the burning torches in the corridor behind him, his big frame was silhouetted against the darkness as he stepped into the chamber. Immediately, his gaze found Grier, who was standing in the middle of the chamber with a mirror in her hand.

"Now," he said, his voice full of quiet satisfaction, "you look like a duchess."

Grier lowered the mirror and looked at him, a timid smile spreading across her lips. "Euphemia dressed my hair," she said. "Do you like it?"

Dane was smiling as he stepped closer, getting a good look at her. "I do."

She nodded, hand still to her hair. "I do."

His smile grew. "When I found you at the abbey, you were like a rosebud," he said. "You were small and pristine, but not yet unfurled. Now, the flower is blooming and I like it very much."

Grier honestly had no idea what to say to him. She wasn't any good with flattery, or sweet words, so she simply kept her mouth shut and smiled that embarrassed smile Dane was becoming familiar with. Seeing that she was tongue-tied, he laughed low in his throat and pulled her towards the door.

"Come along," he said. "There is a fine feast waiting for you in the great hall. Your father's men are anxious to meet the de Lara heiress."

Grier's good mood faded at the mention of her father. A fine moment spoiled as the subject of Garreth de Lara come forth. As Dane took her out into the corridor and towards the mural stairs that led to the floor below, she spoke softly.

"I do not know why they should be," she said. "I am sure most of them did not even know there was an heiress."

Her words were bitter. Given what Dane had heard earlier whilst she'd been in the chapel, he proceeded carefully. He'd been thinking about it all afternoon, even as he went about his duties and she rested after an arduous day.

At first, he thought he should simply leave well enough alone, hoping she would speak honestly of her feelings towards her father in time. But the more he thought on it, the more he thought it best to have her speak on her trouble with her father now rather than later. Keeping it suppressed wouldn't be good for either of them, not when they were trying to establish a relationship left to them by the very man she hated. He didn't want any secrets between them. That, more than anything, would bother him. He had told Grier in the beginning that all he would ever expect from her was honesty.

He meant it.

"It is possible," he said after a moment. "It is unfortunate that you did not have a relationship with your father, but it is certainly not your doing. He sent you away quite young. I, however, did have a relationship with your father, as did his men, and he is much respected and admired here at Shrewsbury. The men want to respect and admire you also."

They were nearly to the bottom of the stairs, with the entry spread out before them and the door that led outside. Oddly enough, for the size of the keep, it was a very small door, but quite elaborately carved, like the doors on the chapel.

But Grier wasn't thinking about the doors as she came off the stairs. She was thinking about Dane's comment and wondering just how much she should say about it. After her outburst that afternoon in the privacy of the dim chapel, she felt somewhat better, but bringing her father up again and again would only reopen old wounds. She was coming to think that if Dane knew of her true feelings towards her father, then perhaps he would not speak of the man so often.

Perhaps, he would give her a chance to forget about him again.

"You have expressed to me that all you expect from me is honesty," she said. They reached the entry door and she came to a halt, facing him. "Then mayhap, I should be honest with you about my feelings for my father. I have told you that I did not know him. He cast me off like an unwanted shoe, sending a very small girl to live with strangers at a convent. I will be honest with you, then, and tell you that I hold a great deal of resentment towards my father. It is something I have pushed aside, and forgotten even, but returning to Shrewsbury this morning brought it all back. I do not know what kind of man you knew as my father, but I only knew cruelty and neglect. That does not make me fond of him, so if men want to speak of their fondness and respect for my father, I would prefer they not speak it to me."

Dane was deeply pleased that she had enough faith in him to tell him the truth. He was pleased that she hadn't tried to skirt the issue or, worse, lie about it because she thought that was what he wanted to hear. A bond of trust was building between them already, something he'd hoped for but hadn't really expected, at least not so soon.

"Thank you for telling me the truth of the matter," he said quietly. "I will do my best to ensure no man offends you with his fondness for your father, but you know that will be difficult. They do not know the man from your perspective."

Grier was rather relieved that he didn't become angry at her for her opinion. "I realize that," she said. "I am coming to understand that my father treated his men far better than his own flesh and blood."

Dane couldn't disagree with her and he wasn't unsympathetic. "And for that, I am sorry," he said. "Though I cannot change the past, I will promise you that the future will not be so bleak. I will do all I can to make sure of it. But your father's men… you will have to be tolerant. They do not know what you know, and it would be best, for the sake of morale, that you did not tell them. I fear it will only upset and confuse them, and it might even make them less than willing to be loyal to a duchess who speaks poorly of her father."

Grier nodded. "I understand," she said. "I have been concerned for that very thing. My thoughts on my father are my own. But do not expect me to weep at his grave."

Dane simply lifted his eyebrows, a gesture of understanding and agreement, and Grier felt that he, at least, respected her position. He didn't try to talk her into reforming it. Extending his elbow to her, he did not have to prompt her this time to take it. She did it without hesitation and held it tightly.

There was confidence in that grip.

Together, they headed out into the dark English night.