Page 5

Throughout Camdyn’s years at the monastery, there were a few visitors around his age who, once they were safely in the woods and hidden away from the monks’ prying eyes, boldly declared their intentions to him. Sometimes, they offered to spirit him away from what they believed would be a long, dreary life of contemplation and devotion to God. But all wanted to touch him and for him to touch them in return.

He remembered quick, furtive kisses and clumsy hands roaming over his robes, and while it wasn’t unpleasant, he was always quite bewildered. Perhaps because he took part more out of honest curiosity than genuine attraction, though some of the young men might have been considered good-looking. At the time, Camdyn met very few other people; he had no one to compare them to but one another.

The merchant’s son, blond and self-confident, liked to try and reach underneath Camdyn’s robes as they kissed. The woodsman’s nephew, tall and lean, was as shy and uncertain as he was. The traveling bard, a few years older than Camdyn at the time, ignored his lips completely to—strangely—suck at his neck. Cenric found them just off the path and, with more strength and fury than Camdyn had ever seen from him before, hauled the man off of him, sending him fleeing down the road. Afterwards, he sternly warned Camdyn about the nefarious intentions of strangers.

Not a single one of those young men looked anything like Everild did now, bare-chested and broad, with rivulets of water running down his collarbones to his stomach. He was just so big, his eyes and hair so dark, and there would be more of him to see once he took off his boots and pants. That all of him was soon going to be in bed with Camdyn had him, for the first time, burning with heat but also trembling with fear.

Camdyn knew, vaguely, about what was expected of him that night. That he and Everild were to consummate the union of their marriage by becoming one. The exact details and logistics of it, however, remained a mystery to him. He wished now that he had done more with the young men who visited the monastery—he would have had a better idea of what was to come and would be more skilled at pleasing his husband besides.

In the week before the wedding, Camdyn tried his hand at research in his family’s library. There were only irrelevant medical texts—nothing about sexual intercourse but quite a bit on treating bee stings, which was interesting, and a few entries about breastfeeding, which he passed on to Aoife—and a few erotic tales that were scanty on all details except for a running theme of abduction, ravishment, and initial pain, burning, and tears that turned into pleasure and rapturous cries after enough thrusts.

That wouldn’t be—that wouldn’t be so bad, he supposed. If it eventually felt good. But the question of how Everild would fit, along with a lingering concern about the pain, still had him shaking. It had to work, plenty of people did it and seemed to enjoy it, and yet—Surely if he just asked his husband to be gentle with him?

Everild finally turned his attention back to Camdyn, chest heaving, staring at him in surprise, his eyes wide. Camdyn shifted nervously on the bed. Maybe he was supposed to have already undressed. But one of the maids told him that husbands preferred to do that themselves. He should have asked her for details. She seemed to know what she was talking about.

What position was he supposed to be in—on his back or on his front? Or maybe something else? Would they be there all night? How many times could a man—enjoy himself? What would Everild’s body look like, naked? Would he be pleased with Camdyn’s? What if he didn’t find Camdyn appealing at all? Would that be better or worse than Everild roughly taking him well into the morning? But, no, the kiss—Everild was so sweet when they kissed and so attentive at the banquet. His cousin, though, Dustan Redmane—what he said—was that true?

Was his husband just trying to make it easier to—to have relations with him? Everild was so upset at what the man said and yet all but dragged Camdyn up to their bedchambers. If he begged his husband to just let them sleep tonight, would he be angry? Surely he would be disappointed. Camdyn didn’t think Everild would force him, but—but people were different behind closed doors.

His gaze flitted to the bedchamber’s locked door and then to Everild’s naked chest and then to Everild’s face. “W-what would you have me do?” he asked.

His husband just stared at him. When Everild finally spoke, his voice sounded like his throat was scraped raw. “Nothing.”

Ah, right. That’s—Camdyn should just lie back and—and let Everild—he fiddled with the brooches keeping his cloak pinned to his robes. It should have been easy enough to simply unpin them, but his hands trembled. “Of—of course, my lord. Just, please. Please, be gentle, I haven’t ever—I know a bit, but I’ve never actually—“ To his horror and embarrassment, he began to tear up again. “I’m—I’m so sorry, I’m nervous.”

But as he let the cloak fall from his shoulders and hesitantly tugged at the red sash of silk around his robes, Everild scrambled forward and stopped him. “No, Camdyn,” he rasped, “Nothing, we’ll do nothing. Sleep in the bed. I’ll take the floor.”

There was a part of him that sighed in relief at this answer. That nothing would happen that night. But there was another part of him that was stung by this rejection.

He blinked back more tears. “Am I not—to your liking?” Or perhaps it was his inexperience that turned Everild off. That would have made sense. His husband was older than him, cousin to the king, and a great warrior. Surely he had prettier and more skilled lovers than Camdyn. He wiped his eyes. “I can learn,” he said, sniffling, “I can please you, if you show me how. I promise. I can be a good husband to you.”

Everild kneeled at his feet, almost as if in prayer, so that Camdyn had to gaze down at him. His eyes were so dark and gentle and full of reverence.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, and Camdyn’s heart fluttered, “But nothing will happen between us unless you want it to. Never, if you choose.”

“But—don’t you want to—“

“I want you to be happy here. As happy as I can make you.” He paused, apparently searching for the right words. Then, bluntly, he stated, “We don’t have to have sex. It doesn’t matter to me. I will never force you. I only want what you’re willing to give me.” He reached for Camdyn’s hands and held them in his own. “Nothing else.”

Camdyn could not stop his voice from quavering. “I—I do want you. Really. But I don’t know when I can—But I know that I don’t want to, tonight. Please. I’m tired and I don’t—I don’t think I can—“

“Of course,” Everild said. He rubbed Camdyn’s hands with his rough, calloused ones. There was honest affection in his gaze.

Camdyn bit his lip. “Can I still kiss you?”

“You don’t need to ask to do that.”

“Okay.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to his husband’s forehead. How silly of him to think that Everild would do anything to hurt him. Everild was on his side since he stepped into the church. He was kind and handsome and—and now that the threat of consummation was removed, Camdyn still actually wanted to share some part of himself with his new husband. “Will you undress me?”

“Camdyn—“

“I want it. I want you to see me, and I want to see you as well. But—but nothing else. I just want to hold you and talk and kiss.” He hesitated. “Is that okay? Can we do that?”

Everild asked, “You’re certain?”

“Yes. I’m certain.”

The cloak was already unpinned; his husband removed it from the sheets, folded it, and set it on the desk. Then he took off his boots. As he did this, Camdyn let his slippers fall to the floor. They were so thin and soft they didn’t make a sound.

Everild gently pulled him up so that they stood face-to-face. For a moment, they merely gazed at one another, hand in hand, and then Everild kissed his nose again, just like at the altar, and reached for the sash cinched around his waist. It pooled onto the carpet, a puddle of red silk. The robes loosened. Everild simply slipped them down his shoulders. Camdyn freed his arms and let the fabric drop to his feet. He was completely bare except for his white stockings that ran to his mid-thigh. The bedroom wasn’t cold, but he shivered at having his skin so suddenly exposed to the air.

He chanced a glance at Everild, looking up at him through his eyelashes. His husband watched him with the same expression he had worn all day whenever he looked at Camdyn: with a bit of wonder and overwhelming gentleness.

“There you are,” he said in his lovely, low, gravelly voice. It made Camdyn smile. He wanted to hold him, to kiss him again, but first—

He placed his hands on Everild’s hips. “I want to see you,” he said with more confidence. He tugged lightly at the black pants. “Can I?”

Everild looked conflicted, brow furrowed, a frown on his face. But then, finally, he nodded.

“Okay,” Camdyn murmured. He untied Everild’s laces, slowly, carefully, then tugged the pants down. Everild helped, stepping out of them, revealing his large, muscled thighs, the hair between his legs, and his member.

It was curious—Camdyn had expected to combust from embarrassment or cry with terror once he saw his husband naked for the first time. But here, looking at the whole of him—still tall and broad, every bit of him just so large, and all crisscrossed with scars, a light flush running up his chest and neck to his face as Camdyn stared—he was positively fascinated. It didn’t change anything, the lack of clothing. He was still Everild. He was still the same man who had protected him that morning, comforted him, and shielded him from his fears and from the strangers in the church. The man who had brushed his tears away at the altar and kissed him so gently. The man who had sent apple pudding to their table because Camdyn had mentioned that he liked cooked apples in his oatmeal.

The man standing in front of him was his husband. They would get to know each other better, but Camdyn knew Everild now, and he was a good man.

He smiled and embraced him, burying himself in Everild’s chest when the man pulled him closer, tighter, running his hand through his hair and along his neck, rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles.

“Here I am,” Camdyn said.

They eventually moved into the bed, wrapped up in fur blankets and one another’s arms. His husband’s fingers traced idle patterns along Camdyn’s hip as he rested his head on Everild’s chest. There was still revelry in the great hall. He heard the distant music and dancing below. But here, in their bedchamber, it was just him and Everild and the sound of Everild’s heartbeat and the feeling of Everild’s lips as he kissed the top of his head and pulled him closer.

Everild asked, “Will you tell me about the monastery?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Everything.” He paused. “Tell me about Cenric, or your gardens, or just your days there.”

Camdyn didn’t think he could talk about Cenric yet without crying, and the gardens weren’t particularly exciting, even if Everild said he was interested in hearing about them. He hummed a little, thinking, and then began, “It was built near a beach. The monastery. Anytime I could, I liked to walk down it. Sometimes I had to collect seaweed for medicine or a few stews. Other times I offered to fish. But most of the time, it was where I went when I had spare time.”

“What did you like about it?”

“The sand under my feet. The smell of the sea. How vast it was. Sometimes I just sat and watched the waves and thought about all the ships and boats on the water and all the creatures underneath it. How they were all there, on that expanse, but I couldn’t see them from where I was. I just always thought that was—” He tried to hold back a yawn and failed. “Sorry—that it’s amazing.”

Everild seemed just as exhausted, though. His words came out slow and a little muddled. “Did anyone ever visit by boat?”

“Oh, I hoped! It would have been so exciting! But no, never. I saw whales sometimes, in the distance. The first time I ever saw them, I called everyone out of the monastery to look at them—all the brothers must’ve seen them for years and years beforehand, but they all indulged me. It was fun…”

They fell asleep like that, holding each other, drifting off to the sound of Camdyn’s memories given voice.

◆◆◆

He woke well before the sun rose. It was a habit ingrained in him at the monastery. Once he was old enough to stand for early morning prayers, Cenric gently shook him awake and led him, yawning and bleary-eyed, to the church where they and the rest of the monks huddled together and sang, their voices entwining into a melodic thrum of devotion to God.

Camdyn slowly opened his eyes and found himself not in his cell, curled up on his straw-stuffed mattress and coarse blanket, but lying on a large, soft bed, wrapped in warm furs with strong, muscular arms circled around him.

Everild.

They were pressed so close that, though the room was still dark, Camdyn saw the outline of his husband’s face, his features. His brows were furrowed; he looked serious even in sleep. Camdyn watched his body rise and fall with each breath he took. When he leaned in and kissed Everild on the cheek, his face lost some of its tension. He snuggled back into Everild’s arms and just listened to him breathe for a little while.

Sometime later, there was a tentative knock on the door. Camdyn glanced at Everild, who was still sleeping soundly, before crawling from the bed.

He pulled on Everild’s discarded black velvet shirt and answered the door. It was one of the servants, who clearly expected Everild from his straight, stiff posture and the way he first stared directly above Camdyn’s head.

“My Lord, I—” The man stopped in confusion. Then his eyes drifted down to Camdyn, and his face went beet red. He spluttered apologies. Camdyn felt his own face grow warm. What a sorry sight he must be—hair mussed from sleep and clad only in an oversized shirt and white stockings—not very becoming for a great lord’s husband.

Self-consciously tugging the shirt down, Camdyn asked, “Yes, sir?”

He remembered a moment too late that he wasn’t supposed to refer to the servants as “sir” or “ma’am” or, according to his father, even by their own names. They were to be talked at, not talked to. But, well, Camdyn had referred to everyone who visited the monastery by those titles. If they were really nobles, they found his attempts at social graces charming and gently corrected him. If they weren’t aristocratic at all, they always found his attempts at politeness amusing.

But this man instead stared at him, red-faced and wide-eyed. Perhaps here, to the people working in the castle, it was a rude thing after all. He would have to ask Everild after he figured out what the man at the door wanted. “Um, is—do you need my husband? I can get him—”

The servant shook his head frantically. “No, no! Forgive me, my lord, I did not mean to, ah, interrupt. I merely intended to find out if either of you were in need of anything. Breakfast, perhaps? We could have something sent up from the kitchens.”

“Oh, we could eat in the bedroom?” Camdyn asked. The man nodded. What a surprise! Camdyn had thought they would have to eat in the great hall again. Was that what the small table in the middle of the room was for? “That would be lovely, thank you very much. If it’s not too much trouble, could I also get, um, some clothes and hot water for a bath? Enough for myself and my husband, please.”

At the mention of clothing, the man glanced down at Camdyn’s stockings and then immediately stared straight ahead. “Yes, of course.”

“Thank you,” Camdyn said again.

Once back inside the room, Camdyn opened the curtains just a little to let some sunlight seep into their bedchamber. He carefully crawled back onto the bed so as not to wake Everild and lay down at his side.

His husband woke soon after, blinking away the sleep and squinting at the sunlight. When he saw Camdyn looking at him, he smiled and reached for a kiss, which Camdyn happily provided.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked.

Everild rubbed his eyes and grunted in affirmation. Then he seemed to really look at Camdyn. “What—is that my shirt?”

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry, I put it on to answer the door.”

His husband opened his mouth to speak, his face taking on the same red color as the servant, but he was interrupted by another knock on the door. Camdyn leaped up. “That must be breakfast! I asked for water for a bath, too. Here, I’ll—ah!” He yelped as Everild grabbed him and pulled him back down into the bed, covering him up to the chest with blankets. He looked a little frazzled.

“Enter,” Everild barked as the knock on the door became more insistent and Camdyn squirmed in his arms.

The servants laid new sets of clothes on their bed with low bows, studiously avoiding looking at either him or Everild. Another pulled aside the curtain in the corner of the room that led to another small space containing the bathtub. Steady streams of men hauled buckets of boiling water to pour into it. After setting breakfast on the table, the servants filed out with another set of low bows, except for the very last to leave, a younger man who shut the door with a grin and said, “Hope you continue to enjoy yourselves, my lords.”

Camdyn thought that was very kind of him to say, but Everild flushed and grumbled as he finally let Camdyn up, mumbling something that sounded like, “Wise-ass.” As Everild searched for his pants lying crumpled on the floor, Camdyn dived into their breakfast.

There was a loaf of freshly baked white bread with a large slab of butter pressed into the shape of a hen—which delighted Camdyn to no end. There were also scrambled eggs flavored with herbs and slices of melon sprinkled with salt to bring out its sweetness. To drink, there was tea, floral and sweetened with honey, and Camdyn was especially glad for that because he didn’t think he could stomach any more wine after last night.

He slathered the bread with butter and devoured slice after slice. It was so much softer than the brown bread they baked at the monastery. Everild, he noticed, ate with much more enthusiasm than he had at their banquet. In between bites, he reached under the table and affectionately patted Camdyn’s thigh.

His husband insisted that he enjoy the bath by himself while he set about cleaning their bedchamber—clearing the plates and getting rid of the towels and the wine bottles left from their wedding night. A bit disappointing, but there was still tonight, and Camdyn had never had the chance for a bath quite as luxurious as this, so he complied without too much complaint.

The tub took up most of the space in the small adjoining room. Camdyn thought it could probably fit three people. It would most certainly have room for both him and Everild with a little wiggle room. At the monastery, he had only washed with lukewarm buckets of water and a rag and harsh, handmade soap that left his skin pink. The tub, he noticed, was made of stone. Did the material keep the water hot for a longer period of time? The rest of the room was made up of shelves filled with stacks of white soap carved with pretty patterns and various scented oils that didn’t seem to have been used much at all. Camdyn sniffed at one and found it warm, like cinnamon and black pepper and sandalwood and something pleasant and heated that he couldn’t quite place.

After placing a few drops into the water, Camdyn took off Everild’s shirt, peeled off his stockings, and cautiously lowered himself into the tub. It was like nothing he had experienced before. The hot water felt as if it went past his skin and seeped into his bones, releasing every little ache and tension he had held. It might have been unseemly, but he couldn’t help but release a loud moan of pleasure.

Outside of the room, he heard a crash that sounded suspiciously like plates clattering to the floor. “Everild? Are you alright?”

“Fine,” his husband answered, his voice hoarse.

“Do you need me?” Camdyn asked. Upon hearing Everild vehemently state that no, he was perfectly fine and to stay where he was, he settled back into the bath. He felt a bit like he was steeping himself in tea with the nice, hot water, all scented with spices. The thought made him giggle.

When he was done, he realized he had forgotten both the towels and his clean new clothes. He stepped out of the water, shuddering with the sudden chill, and padded to the curtain, absolutely soaked and dripping. “Everild? Can I have a towel, please?” In an instant, the curtain was brushed aside, and his husband stood there, offering the towel with the care and pride of someone presenting a long-lost treasure back to its owner.

“Thank you,” Camdyn said. Then he noticed Everild staring at him with an indecisive expression. “What is it?”

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

Camdyn flushed with delight. “You don’t have to ask me to do that, either,” he replied, leaning in for another kiss. Everild’s hands felt especially nice and rough now that Camdyn’s skin was soft from the bath, and he must have made a good choice with the scented oil because his husband seemed to greatly enjoy it. He pressed his face into the crook of Camdyn’s neck and inhaled and sighed.

Camdyn suddenly recalled the traveling bard. He’d pressed his mouth against his neck and sucked and bit, and at the time, Camdyn had been utterly confused by it, but now he suddenly imagined Everild’s teeth against his throat, and oh, that—that would be—

A clamoring and series of raised voices outside the bedchamber door was all the warning they got before the king burst into their room, bags under his eyes and clothing disarrayed but as utterly cheerful as he always seemed to be. “Good morning, cousin!”

Camdyn cried out in shock and covered himself with the towel. Everild growled, “Fucking hell,” and shoved Camdyn back behind the curtain. He stood guard in front of it, his body blocking the entryway.

Blushing furiously, Camdyn dried himself off. He didn’t think that the king had seen him, but even so...

The cotton towel quickly became damp. It was a bit cold and uncomfortable as he wrapped it around himself. The new clothes were still neatly folded on the bed, and he was trapped in this small room until the king left. He leaned against the tub and stared at the floor, a pattern of mosaic tiles in the shape of a bright sun, with yellow, orange, and red rays. Everild’s voice carried past the curtains and reverberated inside the room. He was positively snarling.

“Out,” he growled.

The king sounded unfazed. “Right you are, Everild, we need to go out. We’ve important things to talk about today.”

“Get out of this room,” Everild clarified, “King or cousin, you don’t just barge into my bedchamber unannounced. My husband was still getting dressed.”

There was a long pause. The king, to his credit, seemed abashed. “Ah, well. I thought—forgive me, Everild. I didn’t mean—but, well, now that I’m here. They’ve told me you’ve eaten breakfast and have a bath ready. Good! Because I’ve got a treat planned for the two of you. A royal hunt! And after we eat our fill of venison and pheasant, you and I will have a nice long talk, Everild, because it’s very important that we do.” Something desperate crept into his voice. “Please, cousin.”

Everild sighed. “We’ll get ready. Now, out.”

The smile in the king’s voice was audible. “Fantastic. Out I go. I may be the king, but it is your castle, after all.” He added, cheekily, “Glad to see that the newly wedded couple had a very successful night.” The door didn’t close but slammed shut.

His husband brushed the curtains back, Camdyn’s new set of clothes in hand. “I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Camdyn said.

The shirt was made of dark blue silk and cut to reveal a bit of his shoulders and collarbone. It hung off of him not unlike Everild’s black velvet shirt. The pants he shimmied into still felt odd to wear, after a lifetime of running around in long robes. They were tight, constraining. But he supposed he’d get used to them.

When he made his way back into the bedroom, Everild was sitting on their bed, already dressed and frowning. “That won’t happen again, Camdyn.”

Camdyn bit his lip. “I’m fine, I promise. But, what the king said, about hunting. I don’t know how. Will I embarrass you?”

His husband shook his head. “Never. It’ll probably be very boring for you, in fact.”

He considered this. “You’ll be by my side, though, right?”

“Yes.”

Camdyn felt cheered by that. “Well, then it won’t be boring. I’ll do my best.”

A royal hunt—not how he imagined he’d spend the day after his wedding. He could catch and gut fish as well as snare and skin rabbits, and he wasn’t unfamiliar with caring for livestock, but a hunt was quite beyond him. But if Everild was there, then what could go wrong?