It is the summer of the 1187th year of Our Lord, and in His mercy, He has seen fit to provide a bounteous year thus far, even by Poitiven standards. While battles erupt and blossom throughout France, warring flowers of a garden too rich, the first fruit of the season is hanging heavily from the trees and vines. Promise indeed, among so much warfare.
     But in the Loire Valley this season and this year, there is peace. Not so in Gascony , where your husband has been spanking naughty Gascon vassals in accompaniment of his elder brother, Richard Coeur de Lion. But though his father, Henry II FitzEmpress, and his mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and his brother Richard the Lionhearted are fame-heavy, Guillaume does not lack for legend of his own.
     Including his chastity while away from his new-wedded wife. Who could have believed such devotion from one so reputed to be a despoiler of virtue. Since wedding you, he has become like a Lancelot. A gilded knight from France. Unreproachable.
     But there is always a truth to every legend...
     And so, on this summer morning, a radiant day, peacocks scattered and squawking arose from the castle's menagerie -- gifts from kings and queens of far reaching lands, including a lion from Jerusalem -- with the return of a man who may one day be king of most of France, England, Ireland, Wales or perhaps of a recaptured Jerusalem. The uncle of the Holy Roman Emperor. Your husband.
     And where were you? He came to find you, straight to your chamber, but he found you not. And so... sitting down for the first moment in many weeks without a horse between his legs, William of Normandy fell asleep. Still dusty from travel. Still wearing chainmail. He at least took off his helmet. And at his feet, snoring, the greyhound you gave him at your wedding day. Macsen.

     She's been busy, tending to this and that, ruling the roost like a proper little Welsh martinet, bright green eyes the terror of half the servants, and the adoration of the other half. Catrin's struggled with her French at times, but she's made herself understandable, in time, and the castle could have been in far worse shape than it is under her command, no doubt.
     Her red locks are currently woven into a single thick braid, as thick around as a strong man's wrist, her kirtle a dark green of fine cloth, but not so fine that she'd fear to work in it. Being a nobleman's wife gives some leeway, after all. And word has come to her, of her lord's return from the fighting, and she's sprung into action...
     Commands have been barked hurriedly below stairs, in the kitchens and the gardens, to every servant of every station. Eventually, a great feast will be placed, ready to be served, with much wine (much wine indeed, she knows you well enough) and much food, and much music as well. But for now ...
     Catrin's come along, quietly, a single bottle of rich brandy, a goblet, and a plate of goat cheese she's overseen the making of herself, flavoured throughout with sweet wild honey. And pauses, in the doorway, unable to keep from smiling for a moment as she takes in the picture.
     She approaches, then, feet bare thanks to the heat of summer, and sets aside the platter and the bottle and the goblet on a table, and whispers, "Would that painters could see this, and paint so fast as to capture this. But I'll have to hold it instead to the eye of the mind, lest it be lost e'en to me..."

     He cat-naps with the best of them. Though in coming years, he shall be able to hear the cough of a cricket, that time is not yet, and still... he knows those barefeet anywhere. Soft skin on Loire limestone and rugs brought from his mother's journey to the Holy Land when she was Queen of France and married to Louis, not Henry.
     William smiles, eyes not yet opening. Normally clean-shaven, as is Norman custom, he shows the rough cheek of a man who's been out in the wilds of Gascony, sleeping in a tent, although a comfortable tent. "Such a picture this would make," comes his Langue d'Oc, peppered with his broken, but improving, Welsh. "Come here, and make it better."
     Your husband is some seven years your senior, and at least a foot higher than you. He's a giant of a man. Even your brother Davydd, one of the tallest men in all Wales, is more than a head shorter. The Norman men were legends in their own time for such things as height and breadth, hot blooded temperament, and libidos. Among them, the Angevin line of Henry and Eleanor were the epitome...
     He opens his eyes, a shock of deep blue to violet between long lashes. He'll get to the food in a moment. In the meantime, William reaches out with his hand to guide you over to his still armored lap. He inclines his head, resting it back on the back of the chair. "I wonder how it is I ever left you, choosing dust and mud and sweat and blood over rose-scented pillows and honeyed breasts. You must think me the most foolish of men," and the grin eases out after the words. He is olive oil, honey and wine, your William.

     "All men are fools," comes the tart words, followed by a rush of laughter. She has no objections to being guided, it seems, even if the seat is harder and less cushioned than she might like. "First my brother, now you - you exist to trouble women's thoughts, one way or another."
     One hand reaches up, wiping at that cheek above hers. "You could tell me that you do it all for me," she says archly, "but I wouldn't believe you. Not entirely. It's in your blood, llewellyn." She picks up the end of her braid, and grinning impishly, brushes the tail against your nose.
     She's not angry, clearly. Not now, though when you left, there were ... moments when she threatened to murder you herself, and pottery was smashed, though oddly, never anything truly of value, sentimental or otherwise. And before you left, she flung herself at you, whispering words of apology and forgiveness and asking for it in return, and for your own safe return.
     "I've brought you something small to drink and to eat, if you'd like. To wash away blood and dust and bring joy in reunion in place of tears. You've been away too long, you know, my lord." So demure, but her eyes are laughing, under the words, a slight bite to them as she lifts her face to look up at you boldly.

     He brooked no argument, for indeed what choice had he but to go? The alternative was to lose land, and to lose face -- neither of which a Plantagenet parts with well. "I do do this for you," and he begins before you can lift a protest, even in teasing, "...and for the ...many children you will one day, no doubt, give me. Let me see, it is the month of Julius Caesar now... that means, after tonight, you should look to April," he is laughing, smooth like the devil, and he bounces you on his lap for emphasis. After the bath, you will find that the battles have moved to your bed...
     "And ...you married into my family, Catrin Llewelyn of Gwynedd, let me remind you," comes the voice, full lordly and the peering violet look coupled with the slant of a grin. "But I thought we promised never to speak of Welsh and Norman politics," he breathes, and his mouth is at your neck, a pull of flesh, a taste of skin. "Later," he says about the food.

     Women ever argue, even over the inevitable. At least, Welsh women do, and Catrin most certainly does, to tease and torment, and to remind the men why they love those redheaded vixens. Colour rises to her cheeks, and her chin comes up spiritedly.
     "If I am to have children, then you will need to stay close by," Catrin teases unrelentingly. "Or find more servants - ones who you will not object, to have rub my feet and do my bidding while my belly swells with your babes."
     Her head drops, eyes almost closing, and she goes quiet for a moment - not the surest way to shut her up, but there's a glint of responsive pleasure at that taste taken. "If that is your response, my husband, maybe we ought to talk of it some more," Catrin half-whispers, the grin denoting mischief as it appears on her face, in her eyes. "Or maybe I ought to make you go through a bit of trouble, before I allow you your lordly privileges..."

     "Seven battles are not enough trouble for you?" he posits at your ear, a grin there, and the large arms, that need not armor to make them seem strong, surround the much smaller you. "A general, surrounded on all sides by armies of Gascony and Spain, who fought his way through pikes and swords as through a forest of thorns to return to the one rose worth the trouble, and you would wish him more torment than this? Non," he says, the Comte and Duke, and he grins, large Norman paw landing squarely on your hip. "...I think instead you should make ready the bath, employ these...talented fingers," a lift of your hand with his other, to his lips, for a kiss, "...in rubbing out the kinks and knots that Spain set in Normandy's shoulders. And we will talk more, hmm, about my...staying close by a while..."
     The rest of the year in fact. So successful were the battles. Soon you shall hear...
     William inclines his head and grins, an eyebrow lifting and his fingers dig in at your waist even as his grin turns wondrous wicked. You, the wife of one of the most handsome and incorrigible men in France. And that's saying something. "I'll drop the armor at the door, and leave my weapons behind me... all save one," he quips, and then he laughs, deeply held in the broad chest. A lift of his thigh and he moves to set you down.

     "Seven?", she echoes, surprised, brows drawing together and downwards in a little furrow of concern, fear quickly hidden. You're here now, after all. "Then I imagine I must give thanks that you have arrived hale and whole and unharmed." Catrin's face goes red again, and she tosses her braid in playful defiance as you set her down. "I'll need to give orders that the feast be delayed, in that case." For when would she not bid you home with welcome in full? Chinon's bounty will be displayed, one way or the other...
     She sighs, lips against lips for a moment as she parts from you. "I will see what can be done," she mutters. Then : "Even if food can wait, I imagine my lord's thirst is great while hunger yet bides. The brandy, there, it will be ready and waiting for you." She points to it with an airy wave, feet quiet on the limestone again.
     "I will go see what waters can flow, that you can wash off old dusts and leave them outside, though for all your absences, I ought to make it cold as winter's ice and frost..."

     "Non, for all the hours that I am present by God's grace, make sure to warm the water with heated stones," he counters softly and with a chuckle, and slowly he begins to stand. A wrinkle of his nose for the extra weight of armor and garments, an extra hundred pounds on top of his already mighty mass. It is no wonder he has the form he has, such as you have seen when all his garments are off. "Mon Dieu," said to no one in particular. Perhaps only to God Himself.
     William removes the gloves and tosses them down for a servant to grab, they should be in shortly. His young man, a squire to a Duke, who waits just past the door. "And...non...do not halt the feast for me. Let them eat. Chinon should celebrate a victory for Poitou. Richard will be here tomorrow. The feast is like to last a week..." A pause. "If we're provisioned that is, and how has our duchy fared, my fair duchess most capable?" There's a whistle, loud -- a commander's whistle -- and for it comes a young man, just a year older than you, perhaps. And Macsen likewise finally rises, stretching and yawning and then moving past his master to the foot of the bed.

     That makes her pause. Richard, here? Her lips purse up, an almost angry glint to her eyes for a moment. Nobody tells her anything. "We did rather well in the early harvests, my lord," she says primly, with another defiant little lift of her chin. "I would say we can entertain an army, certainly, for at least half the summer's span." Catrin has learned well how to husband resources where necessary, storing and saving in times of plenty so that lean times may stretch through.
     The young bride smiles at the greyhound, a bit, then to the squire, with a brief nod for him. "I'll go issue some orders, nonetheless," and she is as much a general of her own little battlefield as any, "and get the preparations underway for a -proper- bath. Even if I have to scrub you clean myself," Catrin adds, with a dangerous gleam to her eyes, and a too-sweet smile. Mischief plotting, no doubt.
     "But rest you well, a bit, and make yourselves at ease," she includes the squire in this, "and I will have some small victuals sent while the preparations are made. And when they are ready, well... you know where they are, or have you been away so long you've forgotten?" A quiet laugh, and the Welsh lady, once princess, turns on her bare heel.

     Rub me clean. That is, indeed, what I was planning. So you see it in the dark blue eyes, the smolder there, the accompanying smile. He had no other thought nor desire but that you should... do him that honor.
     And his eyes are on you all the while, as you turn upon bare heels to go...

Posted by rowan at January 04, 2004 01:18 PM