Mathilde pursed her lips. "What happened between you and the viscount would have made the loss of your virginity less painful had he chosen to take it on that occasion," she stated. "But few men think of their wives in these matters. So use the ointment quickly. Your husband will be here soon."
Cordelia obeyed, and her actions seemed to belong to someone else. She couldn't seem to connect with what she was doing. The door opened as she handed the alabaster pot back to Mathilde, who dropped it into her apron pocket before turning to greet the prince with a deep curtsy.
Cordelia could see two men standing behind her husband in the corridor-presumably her husband's ceremonial escort to the nuptial chamber. Michael turned and said something softly over his shoulder. There was a laugh, then the door was pulled closed from the corridor. Michael stepped into the room. He was wearing an elaborately brocaded chamber robe, and when he turned his gaze onto the still, pale figure in the big bed, Cordelia saw the predatory light in his eyes, the complacent, almost triumphant, twist to his mouth.
"You may go, woman." His nasal voice had a rasp to it.
Mathilde glanced once toward the bed. For a second her intent gaze held Cordelia's, then, almost imperceptibly, she gave a decisive little nod before hastening from the room, closing the door quietly behind her. But once outside, she moved into the shadows of the tapestry-hung wall and settled down to wait. There was nothing more she could do to help her nursling now, but she could stay close.
Cordelia stared fearfully as her husband approached the bed. He said nothing but leaned over and blew out the candles at the bedside. Then he reached up and pulled the heavy curtains around the bed, enclosing them in a dark cavern. Cordelia's little sigh of relief in the black silence was lost under the creak of the bedropes as she felt him climb in beside her. He was still wearing his chamber robe.
Nothing was said during the next grim minutes. Her fear and revulsion were so strong, her body was closed tight against him despite Mathilde's lubricating ointment. But her resistance seemed to please Michael. She heard him laugh in the darkness as he forced himself into her, driving into her unwilling body with a ferocity that made her scream. He seemed to batter against the very edge of her womb, plunging, surging, an alien force that violated her to her soul. She felt his seed rush into her, heard his grunting satisfaction, then he pulled out of her, falling heavily to one side.
She was shaking uncontrollably with the physical shock. Her nightgown was pushed up to her belly, and with a little sob she pushed it down to cover herself. The sticky seepage between her legs disgusted her, but she was too terrified of disturbing him to move. She lay trying to stop the shaking, to breathe properly again, to swallow the sobs that gathered in her throat.
The ghastly assault was repeated several times during that interminable night. At first she fought desperately, pushing him, twisting her body, trying to keep her thighs closed. But her struggles seemed only to excite him further. He smothered her cries with his hand, flattened hard across her mouth, and he used his body like a battering ram as he held her wrists above her head in an iron grasp. Blindly, she tried to bite the palm of his hand, and with a savage execration he forced her body over until her face was buried in the pillows and he had both hands free to prise apart her legs while he plunged within her again.
The next time, she had learned the lesson and she lay still, rigid beneath him, not moving until it was over. Again, apart from his short brutal exclamations, he said nothing to her. He breathed heavily, snored during the times he slept, moved over her when he was ready again. Cordelia lay awake, trembling, nauseated, but filled now with a deep raging disgust both for the man who could treat her with such contempt and for her own weakness that forced her submission.
The memory of those moments of glory with Leo at Melk belonged to another life, another person. And she would never know what sensual wonders lay beyond that explosion of pleasure, never know what it was to share her body in love with another.
When dawn broke, Cordelia knew that somehow she must escape this marriage. Even if she couldn't cease to be Michael's wife in name, she must somehow keep her own sense of who and what she was, separate from the violation of her body. She must take her self out of the equation. She must rise above her husband's contemptuous and contemptible acts of possession and maintain her own integrity. Only thus could she keep the self-respect that was so much more important than the mere brutalizing of her flesh.
Michael was now sleeping heavily. Gingerly, Cordelia slid from the bed, pulling back the curtains to let in the gray light of morning. Blood stained the sheet, stained her nightgown, smeared her thighs. Her body felt torn and broken; she moved stiffly like an old woman across to the washstand.
"Cordelia? What are you doing? Where are you?" Michael sat up, blinking blearily. He pushed aside the bed-curtains, opening them fully, then bent his eye on the bed-linen. That same complacent triumph quirked his lip. He looked at Cordelia, standing with the washcloth in her hand. He saw the blood on her nightgown. He saw the trepidation in her eyes as she waited to see if he would rape her again.
"I daresay you need your maid," he said, getting out of bed, stretching luxuriantly. The chamber robe he still wore was untied and fell open as he raised his arms. Hastily, Cordelia averted her eyes.
Michael laughed, well pleased after his wedding night. He reached over and chucked her beneath the chin. She shrank away from him and he laughed again with overt satisfaction. "You will learn not to fight me, Cordelia. And you will learn how to please me soon enough."
"Did I not please you last night, my lord?" Despite her exhaustion there was a snap to her voice, but Michael was so full of his own gratification he heard only what he wanted to hear.
"As much as a virgin can please a man," he said airily, retying his girdle. "I'll not require you to take the initiative in these matters, but you must learn to open yourself more readily. Then you will please me perfectly." He strode to the door, a spring in his step. "Ring for your maid. You need attention." He sounded mightily pleased with himself at this evidence of his potency.
Cordelia stared at the closed door, fighting for composure. Then she dragged off her soiled nightgown and began to scrub herself clean, to scrub as if she would remove the layer of skin that he'd sullied.
Mathilde had kept her vigil all night, and as soon as the prince appeared in the corridor, she stepped forward. "I'll go to my mistress now, my lord?"
"Good God, woman! Where did you spring from? I just told the princess to ring for you."
"I have been up and waiting this past hour, my lord."
"Mmm. So you're a faithful attendant at least. Yes, go to her. She needs attention." He waved her toward the door with another smug smile. His bride had found him a most devoted husband, and he couldn't remember when last he'd been so aroused, so filled with potent energy. Certainly not since he'd begun to suspect Elvira's unfaithfulness.
But that was past history. He had a new bride and a new lease on life. Cordelia would not disappoint him, he would make certain of it.
Mathilde bustled into the dimly lit chamber. "His lordship looked right pleased with himself."
"He is loathsome," Cordelia said in a fierce undertone. "I cannot bear that he should touch me ever again."
Mathilde came over to her. Her shrewd eyes took in the wan face, the lingering shock in the blue-gray eyes. "Now, that's a foolish thing to say. For better or worse, he's your husband and he has his rights. You'll learn to deal with it like millions of women before you and millions to come."