Lord Sebastian's Wife

Cooper Katy

“It does not matter. You can never be all I desire in a wife.” You lost that ability when you let George Conyers into your bed. He clamped his jaw shut before he could speak the words. Anger ached in his chest, burned in his throat. If he was not careful, he would begin to curse her and there would never be peace between them.

In a quiet voice she asked, “If I can never be the wife you desire, Sebastian, will you not tell me what I can do to make the best of this bad bargain?”

“Anything you do will be well enough.” Anything she did would have to be enough. They were knotted, not to be parted in this life.

She sighed and lowered her eyes. “I do not believe you.”

“We cannot undo the past, Beatrice. You cannot undo your dalliance with Conyers and I cannot undo what I have said about it. From now, all I need is your obedience, and I do not doubt I shall have it.” That much, at least, was true. He would make certain of it.

“If we cannot undo the past, I at least am willing to let it rest.” She looked up at him, her clear eyes catching the candlelight. “Can you say the same?”

He eased his gaze away from hers, unable to withstand her scrutiny. “I do not care about the past.”

“Do you not? You cannot leave it behind. I have done penance for my sins and promised never to commit them again. For my immortal soul, I will not so dishonor myself. You can neither forget nor forgive. How shall we ever live together, Sebastian?”

“We will because we must,” he said.

She walked away from him, toward the altar. He followed.

“What do you want of me, Beatrice?” he asked.

She crossed herself and knelt, folding her hands. He knelt beside her.

“Tell me what you want.”

Looking at the rood screen, she said, “I want to be at peace.”

“I cannot give that to you.”

“I know. No man can.”

No man? Memories danced before his mind’s eye: Conyers with his hands on her, Conyers with his mouth on her. And Beatrice allowing it all.

“Did Conyers?” he asked, his voice harsh and flat in the silence.

She closed her eyes, her mouth flattening, and then said in a weary voice, “Sir George Conyers wanted nothing more than an hour or two of pleasure.”

“And you gave it to him.” He did not want to talk about Conyers, but he could not stop prodding her. What ailed him?

She shook her head and opened her eyes, staring up at the rood screen once more. “I do not think so.”

“Are you saying I was mistaken in what I saw?”

“What did you see?”

“I saw him touch you where no man but your husband should.” The muscles in his arms and shoulders tightened, and behind his anger was pain, so fierce it did not seem a memory but agony renewed.

She murmured something, her voice too low to be heard, then said, “You are not mistaken in what you saw.”

“You speak in riddles, Beatrice. You deny you gave him pleasure yet you admit you lay with him.”

“I admit nothing.”

“Did you lie with him? Was I mistaken?” The echoes of his cry clanged against the walls of the chapel, his fury escaping into the open at last.

She turned to face him, her eyes wary. He had a brief, bitter memory of her as a girl, as easy to read as a primer. Now he could no more decipher her expressions than he could translate Greek.

“It does not matter whether I lay with him or not. I will be faithful to you. I would promise it if you asked it of me, but a promise does not matter. I will never betray you because I refuse to risk my immortal soul to give any man living a moment’s ease.”

She looked away and stood. “Let us talk no more, Sebastian. I am weary and say what I ought not. If you will excuse me, I shall retire now.” She walked toward the door.

His anger died as if it could not survive her absence. He scrambled to his feet and followed her. “Do not go, Beatrice.”

She turned to face him. “Why not? We only brangle whenever we meet. Perhaps, given time, we shall be able to live together without quarrel. But that time has not come.”

He held out his hand, no longer clenched in a fist. “I do not want us to part like this.”

She sighed. “Nor I, but I do not see how else we may part.”

He moved closer to her, his hand still outstretched. “If I say I believe you…”

“Do not lie for so small a reason, Sebastian. It does not matter enough.”

His hand dropped; the two feet that separated them might have been twenty. “You are changed.”

Her chin went up. “Perhaps I was never who you thought I was. Perhaps what you see now is the truth.”

“Is it?”

Her mouth curled in a bitter smile. “You cannot leave anything alone. I cannot answer that question, I cannot allay your fears. I can offer you no comfort. This is what we suffer for our sins.” She turned away from him and crossed the distance to the door. Opening it, she turned to face him. “Good night and God be with you.” She disappeared, shutting the door behind her.

Without her, the chapel walls crowded around him, the air chilly and damp. The light on the altar flickered and danced, spilling shadows and golden light against the dark stone walls. Sebastian returned to the altar and knelt, casting about in his empty mind for a prayer, any prayer.

If he could, he would release Beatrice from this marriage. Not because he wished to marry any woman but her, but because she was right when she said they did nothing but brangle when they met. He did not want a turbulent marriage. Like Beatrice, he wanted peace, but when he was with her he could not find it for himself nor would he leave her be to discover it for herself.