The Prisoners of Wyvern Castle

Madeline and Rupert discuss their bleak future

Madeline could feel when Rupert finished. He took much longer than a dog, but stiffened in the same way, staying rigid for half a minute before rolling to his side, holding her, so she came with him. "Are you... I did not mean to hurt you, Madeline. Are you well?"

"I am well," she assured him. "It only hurt for a moment. It was nothing, truly."

"But was it pleasant for you?" he asked. This concern surprised and pleased her. He was not at all the top-lofty aristocrat she had been expecting. She responded to the anxiety in his tone and thought about his question.

It had been something of an anti-climax. The size of him had made her wary. Then the wonderful sensations he had evoked while caressing her had led her to expect pleasure, so the first sharp pain had come as a shock. But once she relaxed, it had not been as uncomfortable as she had feared. On the whole, it had been rather pleasant. Strange, but pleasant.

"Yes, it was," she assured him. "And for you?"

His voice was awed, as if he had participated in a miracle. "It was wonderful. I had no idea. Can we do it again later?"

They slept, and then coupled, then slept again. The third time, the sense of something more seemed almost within reach—but then he finished and, once again, rolled to his side, holding her against him. It was pleasant lying in his arms. She had not been held with affection since her mother had died when she was ten. The candle had long since guttered, but the dawn light showed his face relaxed in sleep. His face was all she could see, since he had pulled the blanket up to cover them. She lay studying him, as if she had to commit him to memory and would be examined on the subject after she broke her fast.

She was considering the stubble now darkening his cheeks when he spoke. "Good morning, madam wife."

"Good morning, my lord," she answered, a smile bubbling in her voice. He was awake and surely would not mind if she did as she wished. She brushed the beginnings of his beard. "It prickles," she discovered.

"I will have Morris shave me again this morning," Rupert promised.

"No need. I like the way it looks."

"I do not wish to scrape your skin, Madeline, when I kiss you. You are so soft and tender." He rolled again, caging her with his arms and body. "And I do wish to kiss you. Very soon and very often." Carefully, he lowered his head and brushed her face lightly with his lips, then rubbed his rough skin gently against her cheek.

"Are you well? Are you recovered from the hurt?" He had asked her that twice in the night, each time before he took her again. She spread her legs obligingly, but he said, "No. I must clean myself and shave. And let you recover, for though you say you are not in pain, I fear you say so just to please me. Tell me the truth, Madeline. Are you well? Do you still hurt?"

She thought about it. She ached a little, the ache of exerting little-used muscles. And she was sticky. She, too, would welcome a wash. But she could tell him honestly, "I do not hurt, Rupert. I would like a bath, though."

"It is a messy business, is it not?" he said, cheerfully, shifting to lie beside her, her head cradled on his arm.

"What do you wish to do today? I shall practise a little, of course, but we could... I do not know your interests or how you normally spend the day."

"At home, I manage the household, see to my dogs, read, sew or knit or practice my music."

His face sharpened with interest. "You sing? Or you play an instrument?"

"The spinet. I play the spinet and sing a little."

"Then we shall ask for a spinet, so you can practise. I will ask, but I think they will not let us have your dogs, Madeline. I am sorry. Are there books here in the tower for you to read?"

She had seen none. "I do not think so, Rupert."

"Then we shall ask for books, too, or permission for you to go to Lord Wyvern's library and choose your own."

"Surely now you are wed... Rupert, you are the Earl of Penworth. You do not need permission, do you? And now that you are wed, you are considered of age." Or so the author had claimed in the horrid novel she had read just a few weeks ago. "How old are you, Rupert?"

"Twenty. I shall be twenty-one in a few months. But it makes no difference, Madeline. Lady Wyvern and Lord Graviton rule here, and we are their prisoners."

"She is your sister. Surely she does not mean you harm?"

Rupert's response was bitter. "Half-sister, and she has hated me all my life. She would harm me if it were to her advantage, but while I live—and with Lord Wyvern absent—she has the whole earldom at her command."

The thought that flashed into Madeline's mind was so Gothic she hesitated to give voice to it, but Rupert's mind had clearly gone in the same direction. "While I live..." he repeated.

"If we have a child..."

"If he is a son..."

Madeline turned into him, stretching her arm across his chest, as if she could shield him from the malice. "Then we must avoid making a child."

He returned the hug, kissing her hair. "It will not answer, Madeline. Perhaps Graviton might hesitate to carry out his threat --- his own sister, after all. But the Ice Dragon will not care who fathers my heir, as long as someone does. We cannot trust your brother to protect you."

She shivered. "Half-brother. And he has hated me all his life."

"Well, then." He gave her a squeeze and another kiss. "We have time. They will keep me for my stud services until they have a boy child. Two, if they are wise."

She scooted up, so her return kiss could reach his lips. "We will find a way to escape, and we will go to the king!" They would have a year. Or perhaps two or three years. Surely, in that time, they could foil their captors?

"Or Lord Wyvern might return," Rupert said, hopefully, but Madeline did not intend to count on that chance.