Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/584996.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Pillars_of_the_Earth
  Relationship:
      Richard_of_Shiring/Elizabeth_of_Weymouth
  Character:
      Richard_of_Shiring, Elizabeth_of_Weymouth, Aliena_of_Shiring, Jack
      Jackson, Prior_Philip
  Additional Tags:
      Implied_Underage, Canonical_Rape/Non-con, Rape/Non-con_References
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-06 Words: 4551
****** Sanctified ******
by noisette
Summary
     William Hamleigh's widow marries his successor.
Notes
     Rape/non-con warnings refer to William's canonical misdeeds and
     Elizabeth's marriage to him. No on-screen non-con and none between
     pairing characters.
The ceremony is brief, nothing at all like the weeklong merrymaking of Jack and
Aliena's long-awaited bonds. None of her family is present. Elizabeth stands in
gold brocade, a bride before God once more, a lamb to be slaughtered, and the
Prior pronounces her wife with the resounding echo of his voice in the small
chapel of Shiring castle, where she was last consecrated its lady. She wonders
if Prior Philip's words reach up to heavens; if God truly is witness before
this marriage. She wonders where His great gaze was turned the last time she
was brought here to wed a man she did not know and could never love.
It is not the same. The Hamleighs were in favor with King Stephen when she said
her vows. Now they are dead and it is Richard of Shiring who would prove his
loyalty to young King Henry by wedding the widowed daughter of a long-devoted
earl. The place still reeks of politics and bargains, but Elizabeth no longer
feels the cold grasp of panic. She lets her new husband lead her to the stone
balcony and holds his hand as their new subjects applaud and bless this union.
There will be drinking in the taverns until the small hours of the night. Ale
will flow freely and the lutes will be waging war upon each other while
Elizabeth pays the price.
"Sister," intones a voice behind her. "I am happy for you." Aliena's hands
clasp her warmly, the scent of her both clean and earthy, as though she bathes
with the water nymphs, and press Elizabeth into a tight embrace.
"I am happy for us both," Elizabeth echoes, albeit a little softer. She used to
dream of having a sister, of sharing secrets and long walks, of speaking her
mind freely: a child's dream, forged when that child still played with dolls.
Sisters are earned through marriage, which somewhat dulls the pleasure of their
company.
Aliena's lips purse tightly. "Richard is--" But there is no time for second-
guessing. A feast has been readied, the tables laden with pork and mutton, hare
and venison. Glistening carcasses roast on spits as the wine is poured into
thin, golden goblets: a salute to the new lady of Shiring, for she is the same
as the old lady of Shiring.
Of course, no one says as much, though they must all be thinking it.
"Are you not hungry, my lady?" Prior Philip's query startles her halfway
through the feast. He is seated at her right and Richard is at her left, two
men she fears and does not wish to disappoint suddenly gifting her all of their
terrible attention.
"She is anxious for the wedding night," Aliena answers in her stead, both
saving Elizabeth and damning her with that thoughtless quip.
Jack Jackson is quick to seize upon his wife's jibe: "No need. Our Richard
fought the Saracens. Braving a wedding bed ought to be no harder." Laughter and
bawdy jokes ensue at that instigation, but though they all doubtlessly mean
well, Elizabeth feels her cheeks go red with horror.
She is relieved when a serving girl comes to refill her goblet and it overflows
at the first drop. The girl apologizes profusely, rushing to stem the crimson
tide with rags. It's of no use, the red wine spills over the edge of the table
to stain Elizabeth's dress. With some effort, Elizabeth succeeds in containing
a sharp, hysterical laugh; what else is a bride to wear on her nuptials but
red? Particularly a bride such as her, already despoiled and barren?
It is an excuse to leave the wedding feast and she takes it gladly. Let the
songs be sung and the ale be poured, let others make merry in her name. She
dismisses her women once they have freed her from her dress and removed it to
be laundered. They are gone before she can request any other sort of armor. Not
that it would do her much good. They say a crusader's sword will pierce
chainmail.
The bed has been draped with clean linens, candles lit to wreath the room in
soft golden light. Even the hearth betrays her with its warm glow. This is a
room she knows well; she has no business feeling the smallest shred of hope.
Elizabeth's knees hit the cold stone, a familiar chill seeping through the thin
shift. Hands join in prayer: it will do her no good, but it is the only comfort
she has left.
They say God's mercy unfolds in mysterious ways. Prior Philip would say He
never gives His children a burden heavier than they can bear; he is wrong. One
husband dead only for another to take his place -- and this one a soldier on
the Holy Crusades, with the blood of many on his hands and the same title
heaped upon him. Why does God not grant her peace? Why let her indebt herself
so to both brother and sister?
She is still on her knees when the door opens and Richard walks into the bed
chamber. There is not a moment when she mistakes him for William: they may have
a similar build, but Richard's hair is long, like a woman's, and his eyes are
soft like Aliena's. All the same, Elizabeth scrambles to her feet as if caught
doing something unseemly.
"Do I intrude?" Richard's lips twitch at the corners: he asks only as a jape,
as a careless, throwaway remark to bide the time. What should he care if he
intrudes? A man takes precedence before God when in his wife's bedchamber. Her
silence does not dissuade him: "There was a bard come to sing King Henry's
praises. A lengthy tale; it seems Queen Maud's son is something of a Hercules,
for all his twenty winters, most of which were spent in exile..." Richard
slants a glance her way. "You escaped in time."
She might be tempted to mistake that for praise if Richard weren't undressing
as he speaks. His boots and tunic are first to go, the heavy bejeweled livery
of his earldom set aside with great care where it will not be lost. He has
fought twenty years to regain his honor; Aliena regaled Elizabeth once with
tales of their trials and tribulations, except they weren't so much tales as
truth and Aliena only spoke of the past because Elizabeth had broached the
subject of her marriage to William Hamleigh. They are very fair, these
siblings. This does not make them kind.
Richard's voice startles her; he is suddenly close enough to touch, wearing
only shift and breeches, toes very pale against the stone floor. "Prior Philip
bade me say he will be in the chapel until the small hours, should you wish to
see him."
"My lord?" None would call Elizabeth sharp-witted, no need to break the streak.
"I believe the good prior does not wish to brave the road to Kingsbridge at
this hour," Richard answers, "and so has contrived some excuse to keep him
here. My sister and her merry brood have taken his example." He reaches out a
hand to take Elizabeth's. "We have a house full of guests and wine enough left
to keep them all merry -- but this is all talk for the day. Won't you come to
bed?"
Her heart seizes in her chest, a sharp dagger piercing her right between the
ribs. Futile, of course, for she has been here before and there's no refusing
one's lord husband. The calluses of Richard's palm catch under her hand, rough
skin foretelling a rough man, and when he tilts back her head to kiss her lips,
she goes still, a dog well trained for her master's pleasure. It does not last,
mercifully; this parody of love could reduce her to tears. The very instant
that Richard releases her, Elizabeth gathers the long ends of her shift and
climbs upon the bed to position herself.
Hair falls into her eyes, as she kneels upon the sheets, obscuring both the
unfriendly corners of her marital chamber and her husband's confusion.
Sometimes William would think it a lark to push her face-first into the
pillows, which made it hard to breathe, and so she does not make to bow her
head lest it should give Richard the same clever notion.
"Elizabeth..." Her name in his mouth has no business being so tender. The bed
dips beneath him, a hand drifting to smooth along her spine. She anticipates
him hiking up her shift and spreading her legs a little wider; worse has been
done, he need not be so gentle. He need not ask "will you look at me?" as
though she has a choice.
A dog obeys.
"I enjoy looking upon your face," Richard breathes. Those same, rough-skinned
fingers pry back the curtain of her wheat-golden hair. (The thought of shearing
it all and joining a monastery has crossed her mind, but she cannot. She owes
Aliena a debt.) Richard tries again: "Will you not look upon me? The ear is
something of a gruesome sight, I grant you, but you can hardly see it
anymore..."
His ear. William Hamleigh's work, as Aliena told Elizabeth after they took
Shiring castle together. Words alone would not have done it; Richard needed to
spill blood to repay that which had already been taken. He got his revenge in
the end.
The memory serves as a reminder that this man is like any other: there is as
much sin in his heart as there it goodness. Perhaps he will not be cruel...
Elizabeth slides down the bed and turns onto her back. She's done it like this,
too, the twin burden of husband and duty bearing upon her lungs until she could
barely breathe. She wonders if Richard would like the sounds she makes when
she's suffocating. He smiles, eyes crinkling with pleasure. He is younger than
William; lest he should displease the King, it will be many years still before
she is made a widow once more. Many years made up of many nights like this one.
"Better," he murmurs and settles beside her. His skin smells of wine and
kindling, leather and steel -- a warrior's musk. She does not think about what
he will smell like when he returns from the whorehouses; it is of no concern.
Long moments pass without his saying anything else. He does not touch her, does
not bring his hands to his throat simply because he can. Despite herself,
Elizabeth feels herself begin to breathe easier: the mind cannot withstand
constant panic and hers is well inured to marking the warning signs. She
startles when out of nowhere, Richard says: "I have hated this room for years."
"My lord?" Does he mean to take her elsewhere? In the chapel, Lord have mercy,
or in the hall, with Jack and Aliena, and his soldiers looking on?
Elizabeth shoots him a searching glance, but Richard is no longer looking at
her. He is stretched out on his back, gazing up at the velvet canopy heaped
over their heads. "In my dreams, I see his face loom above me as though it was
I who bore the brunt of his cruelty."
A log crackles in the fire. Elizabeth imagines William Hamleigh's ghost
laughing. "He hated Aliena most," she recalls, letting slip a secret she vowed
she'd never share. It does not take a scholar to parse out the form that hate
must have taken.
Richard nods. He does not betray his sister's confidence, even now. "He was a
monster. Now my father's castle reeks of his stench and I cannot close my eyes
for fear of seeing Hamleigh above me, dagger in hand." His jaw works as if to
clamp down on the words, but once spoken they cannot be swallowed back. "I
expect it is worse for you..."
She doesn't flinch from his scrutiny, his dark eyes glimmering gold with the
firelight. "William Hamleigh is dead." A child's answer in a woman's mouth, but
it's the best she can do at a moment's notice. William is dead and Richard
takes his place; it is neither noble nor barbaric, it is the way of the world
and Elizabeth knows better than to oppose God's will.
"Do you wish me to sleep elsewhere?" The offer springs from Richard without
snicker or smile.
Does he wish her to feign desire and stop him? Elizabeth feels panic kindle
anew in her breast. "My lord..." She will lie, if she must, only she isn't sure
of being able to make a convincing enough portrait of wantonness when she was
only ever taught how to suffer a man's attentions in her twelve years of
marriage. Perhaps, if it means Richard will be gentle--
"I have distressed you," Richard says, rolling up onto his elbow. Auburn hair
sweeps across his shoulders, looking soft to the touch. Elizabeth does not dare
reach out her hand. "I make no pretense of being much of a poet. Nor am I like
the knights from stories... but pray do not fear me, my lady. I shan't lay a
hand upon you if you do not wish it. You are safe in this bed and in this
castle. Or if you'd like, you could visit your parents..."
"They will not have me." Elizabeth's throat is tight, but somehow the words
creep out of her. She doesn't even flinch when Richard asks why. "My father
hardly knows me anymore. My brothers wish I had made a more profitable union
after William's death." She shrugs, shoulders hitching up against the bedding.
"All the same..."
"What will you do for heirs, my lord?" Aliena might have a son, but Richard
holds the earldom. He must want children of his own.
"In time, perhaps you and I may come to some agreement," he says, as lucid as a
court jester.
Elizabeth feels her breath catch. "You would take a mistress?"
"I would not shame you." Richard's hand cups her cheek and though it's rough
and leathery, his palm is also pleasantly warm. "My sister spoke to me of your
-- predicament. But as I am in the business of ransoming William Hamleigh's
misdeeds, let me say I will not weep were I to remain childless. Castle and
title will pass to my nephew, and you and I shall live our old age in peace."
He cannot mean it, but Elizabeth is too starved for kindness to contradict.
Tentatively and with gestures so spasmodic she must seem possessed, her hand
finds his. It is a burden she will bear for this man who has wed her knowing
she will never give him sons, who knows that she is no longer pure or innocent
-- or whole.
This man who kisses her as if her lips are the gates of Heaven. Elizabeth's
head cants back, exposing her neck to teeth and tongue, but Richard refuses to
follow. In the firelight, his eyes are hooded, lashes as long as spider legs
against his cheeks. "A moment, my lady, I--" He is flushed and his breeches
look to be tight about his hips. It is as sure a sign of a man's arousal as
fingers grappling with the fastenings of her dress, only Richard's hands are
slipping away instead and he doesn't look to be willing to avail himself of his
rights.
"Does it pain you?" Elizabeth hears herself ask. "Is it -- painful for you not
to touch me?" William never waited this long to force her onto her knees. Once,
when he'd drunk too much wine to see straight, he fell asleep upon her,
breeches undone and foul snores spilling from his open mouth. He was too heavy
to move. Elizabeth woke in the morning to find him finishing what he'd started
the night before.
"I was separated from my ear when I was a boy," Richard chuckles. "No, I would
not call this pain..."
"Will you show me?"
The question startles them both. Hair spread leonine across the pillows,
Richard look more like the saints in the Holy Bible than a demon balancing
Elizabeth's life in the palm of his hand. He swallows sharply when she comes up
on her knees beside him, their places oddly reversed. Elizabeth steels herself
as he shuffles hastily out of his clothes, baring tan legs and pale thighs to
her gaze. Nestled in a thatch of dark hair, his manhood juts out against his
stomach like a red scepter. She knows it will be warm to the touch and that it
will taste bitter on her tongue. She also knows that William called it his best
weapon -- and used it as such.
Awkwardly tugging off his shift, Richard whacks his head against the headboard
and falls lamely to one side. A flush creeps along his cheeks and chest.
Elizabeth can't quite contain a snort of laughter from huffing out through her
nose. She almost regrets it when Richard rights himself, hair tangled around
his dark head. "Indeed, I am as graceful as a newborn calf," he announces,
flopping back against the pillows. "Let this serve as a warning for our first
dance."
"Never fear, my lord... I hear only the King may force an earl to his feet in
the dance hall." And Henry is rumored to be a thirsty for battle, not feasting.
"Should that royal request be made, I will contend I am a better singer..."
Richard snickers, vividly embarrassed but doing his best to conceal the warm
glow of humiliation. It is a wife's duty to aid in hard times; as the marriage
bonds say, she is to be his support in both joy and sorrow. To -- worship. With
her body.
The ribbons holding up her shift give way at the barest tug of Elizabeth's
fingers. Now they are even: her scars to match his, the jagged bumps of her
hipbones to slot awkwardly against his tan skin. Richard opens his arms when
she slides into his lap, but his hands are gentle against her spine. He only
rolls up into the cradle of her warmth once, unable to contain himself. This -
- this must hurt him. To be so close and yet denied; Elizabeth expects to find
herself on her back once more, Richard's weapon spearing her wide. It would not
hurt as much as it used to. She is no virgin.
Richard tips up her chin with a finger. "I would give you pleasure tonight."
Fear palpitating in her chest, Elizabeth breathes out: "Yes." And Richard takes
her mouth with a soft kiss, nipping at her lips without bruising, until he
himself is breathing harshly. A soft, molten whimper escapes her when he tips
her back to suck bites into the fragile skin of her collarbones. If he can feel
the jagged welts under his tongue, then he's gracious enough to dismiss the
vile evidence. He's far less saintly when his mouth seizes onto a nipple and
lashes it violently with delectable, sharp swipes of his clever tongue.
Elizabeth moans, throwing back her head. Heat floods her cheeks and leaches
down her thighs. She means to tell him, to apologize, but Richard is
relentless. He palms her breast and turns his attention to the other one, his
warm breath gusting against her bare skin like wind's caress.
Elizabeth finds purchase on the headboard for as long as she can reach it.
After that, her hands tangle in dark hair, unconsciously pulling Richard to her
to prolong the sweet, sweet agony. His eyes are hooded when he meets her gaze
and the salt on his lips is that of her sweat. Elizabeth feels herself bear
down upon his cock, slicking him with her need. Is this why William's whores
were always smiling? Is this how it felt for them to be held?
She makes to grasp Richard in her hand and take him into her, as William
sometimes had her do to satisfy himself that she was no better than the wenches
he hired, but Richard winds an arm around her waist and flips them bodily. Air
leaves her lungs in a rush. He's strong; he could easily crush her if he chose.
If only his eyes weren't fixed upon her like a supplicant gazing up at the
Madonna, she might believe him capable. But Richard kisses her again and does
not stop until he is hunched over her belly, his hand anchoring her knees in
place as he glances up, a roguish smile tilting up his lips.
There's little she hasn't seen before: William's castle was, at times, a
veritable brothel for himself and his men to amuse themselves. The squealing
was so loud that it would wake her from even the deepest slumber. Little of it
looked pleasurable -- a man between her legs, his mouth nipping along her
thighs always made her think of ravenous wolves and felled deer slowly bleeding
out. It isn't so with Richard, whose tongue writes runes into her skin, whose
fingers prove worshipful in their exploration.
"My lord," Elizabeth gasps and hears him laugh.
"I'd ask if you wish me to give you peace, but...you will enjoy this even
more." As ominous as it sounds, Elizabeth splays herself wider and lets Richard
hook her knees over his shoulders. She's rewarded for her trust a moment later
when his mouth finds her cunt, fingers parting her folds and -- oh! His tongue
swipes against the warm, molten part of her that thrums like a mandolin chord
when strummed. Elizabeth grips him by the hair, which only seems to spur her
husband on.
Obscene sounds flood the bed chamber, moans overlapping the slick echo of his
lips suckling at her heat, as she bears down onto his tongue, rolling
mindlessly against the urge to -- to -- she doesn't rightly know it is what she
needs but the ravenous greed for something just outside her reach all but burns
her from within. Is this what the priests mean when they speak of Hell and if
so why does it feel like Heaven is closer within her reach than ever? Richard
latches on with his lips and the fire blazing at her core ignites, flames
licking at her fingertips.
Elizabeth is sure she must have cried out; her fingers are still tightly
tangled in Richard's hair as tremors shake through her. She cannot seem to
catch her breath. "My lord -- Richard." He's there, in her arms, a warm blanket
to cover her: a piece of armor stronger than chainmail. Hastily, she reaches
down to grasp his manhood and lead him into her heat. "Richard--"
He eases in without pain or stretch, sinking until she is full to the brim and
his arms bracketing her shoulders feel less like a cage and more like a
fortress. He is the castle that protects her. "Sweet Elizabeth," he murmurs
into her hair, kissing her cheek and the shell of her ear as though he cannot
help himself. Nor should he.
Sharp, restless thrusts jostle her against the bed, until he stills abruptly
and the tight-laced, frightening strength of him slackens upon her. Elizabeth's
arms circle his shoulders, pulling him tighter to her breast. "You're shaking."
His slashed ear catches beneath her fingertips and he shivers, ducking his
head. They're both ashamed of this and that, of past humiliations that time has
not mended, but if they cannot stand to see each other at their worst, then who
else shall give them that sanctuary? Elizabeth tips up his chin with her
fingertips. A kiss to the mouth precedes the one she lays against his mangled
ear.
In the morning, her maids seem surprised when she asks them to dress her for
the day. It is not uncommon for young brides to wish to break their fast in
bed, still flushed with shame for their undoing, but she is not young anymore
and they need not examine her sheets for proof of consummation. She finds
Aliena in the great hall, with Jack, the two of them necking like newlyweds.
"Sister!" Aliena is quick to rise and cross over the threshold to take
Elizabeth's hands. "Good morning. You look -- well," her lips say, but her eyes
are searching, seeking out evidence to the contrary.
"Better than." A flush may be pardoned; it isn't seemly to speak of what goes
on in the bedchamber, not even among family. "Do you know where Richard is? I
woke this morning and he was gone..."
Jack smiles crookedly from behind his cup, eyes dancing with mirth. "Have you
lost him already?"
"Hush." Aliena squeezes her hands. "He is gone to the chapel, to see the
Prior."
"Oh..." Elizabeth says, but on second thought that still leaves her lost:
"Why?"
Aliena sighs and in that moment she and her brother are like two peas in a pod,
made different only by birthright and God's will. "Philip was adamant they
should talk. Will you eat with us, sister?"
It is a prospect Elizabeth discovers she finds more than a little enticing. She
sits at the head of the table in her husband's stead and listens as Jack speaks
of his latest work on the cathedral. He invites her to tour when she is able,
promises to show her the sketches for the stained glass windows, "which
everyone scoffs to hear, I know, but mark my words, it truly is the future,"
and their easy company tides her over until Richard's bootheels click across
the floor.
"Is there any wine left? My ears are ringing," he thunders, but his eyes are
joyous. "What are you two still doing here? Don't you have a home of your own?"
"Admiring the buttresses," Jack quips, "and the fine stonework of your castle,
my liege lord. I have a cathedral to build. A man needs inspiration."
"A man needs free room and board," Aliena teases, leaning her head upon her
husband's shoulder. To her brother, she adds: "You survived morning mass."
Richard collapses into a chair at Elizabeth's left hand. "Was that what it was?
All I know is I had the Holy Bible recited to me and the Prior still looked
cross."
"Is he still here?" The question seems to startle him, perhaps because
Elizabeth rarely speaks out.
"Yes. He is leaving soon, but. Yes." Richard frowns. "Shall I ask him to stay a
while longer..." And Elizabeth can hear what he isn't saying: do you need
absolution for what we did last night? Did I hurt you?
She shakes her head. "I only thought to wish him a safe journey." The Prior has
been kind to her.
"Fear not, sister." Aliena says, patting her hand. "We take the same road as
Prior Philip and Kingsbridge is not far. Jack is right -- you must come visit
us soon. Both of you."
They part without tears; penance has been paid tenfold for this brief
interlude. As the cart pulls away from the courtyard, bearing away their
friends, Elizabeth lays her smaller hand into Richard's palm. "Did the Prior
speak of me?"
Her husband nods. "He wanted to make sure I understand my duty."
"And do you, my lord?"
"Let us find out." A broad, mischievous grin tugs at Richard's lips, making him
look half his age: a knight of stories and songs and second chances.
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