The Sixth Surrender by Hana Samek Norton

The Sixth Surrender by Hana Samek Norton

Author:Hana Samek Norton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2010-06-16T00:00:00+00:00


CHAPTER 42

Fortress of Rivefort, Normandy

He did say next time, and kept his promise. Considering Rivefort’s preparations for the chimeric war with Philip, it was a wonder that my lord Lasalle found the time. But when he invaded Juliana’s chamber a few days later, she was forced to tell him, with a mixture of triumph and mortification, that her monthly flow had come.

For the occasion, she put on the nightcap he detested, her usual shift, her bed wrap, and a pair of socks provided by Goodwife Margaret. She did not want to deal with him. Her back ached and she felt the cold especially badly. Usually, Hermine or Catalena brought heated bricks, mulled wine, and sympathy. Juliana considered Lasalle a poor substitute. Upon hearing her news, he smiled, kissed her fist, and left her alone. But not for long.

His sudden attentions only confirmed her suspicion of him, but since he had not demanded of her anything particularly alarming, she had submitted without raising a futile fuss. Only one flaw marred her reasoning about Lasalle’s motives: He was not trying to get a child on her. He had told her that plainly when she recoiled with shock at what he had done, her ire forgotten. He had used a vulgar word for this sin against nature, and even supplied the Latin equivalent. She did not know where he had picked that one up, but it sounded just as atrocious.

Yet despite her resolution not to oblige him, she was learning. She was learning that she could make the whole thing as unpleasant for him as it was for her, with paralyzing simplicity. All she had to do was—nothing. She suspected that underneath that pretended patience, Lasalle resented her obtuseness, and she calculated that it would not take him long to become thoroughly tired of her. Instead, he tried to wheedle her.

One night he came later than usual and woke her up with a buss on the back of her neck. She sat up with a gasp. “You are cold and wet!”

He held her back. “Blame the Avre; my horse slipped. I got a thorough soaking, but my, you are dry”—he took a good whiff of her—“hmm, and smell like linen and lavender.”

She tried to free her night shift from under him and to stifle his familiarity. “Linen and lye from the laundry tubs. Please, my back hurts.”

He flopped onto the pillows with his arm around her and flipped away her nightcap. “Don’t be so, now. I’ve never bargained on a cross wife. Tonight, I could use a warm one.”

“You’ve never bargained on a wife,” she reminded him, trying to wind herself away. She did not succeed; he pulled her onto him.

“Ah.” He shivered to prove his distress, and tightened his hold. “Certainly not on such an implacable one. Be still, will you?”

She could do little else. Probing fingers found the knot between her shoulders, and from there worked along her spine. She lowered her cheek against his collarbone. How could a dull ache



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