He had of wondered what taking a wife to bed would be like, and now he had done it. He was a married man, with the chance to make legitimate heirs. It was no secret that he had fathered two children, but his Anne. His wonderful Anne, would give him children, and they would be blessed.
Looking down at his sleeping wife, he felt himself smile at the very innocent look on her face. He knew, as any man knew, that few women at the court were innocent- for all their demure faces, they all schemed like the Queen. But Anne, his sweet Anne, at that moment looked like the innocent she had been as a child.
He still could not believe to think about what her life in the marriage bed must have been like with Edward. He, would had killed and been raised a monster. He had seen her fear, had seen the shaking of her hands, the worry in her.
He had guessed that her life had perhaps been unhappy, but for her to fear the marriage bed, and all that happened within: it was enough to wish that he was still alive, so he could kill him, himself. Which was slightly worrying, he was not normally one to fall prey to bloodlust as other men did. But, for Edward, that bastard, he would have him risen from the dead, so that he could make him pay for his treatment of Anne.
His Anne who barely knew what was expected of her, as a widow, and had clearly never known the pleasure she could be brought. Or the control she could have.
He had promised that they could be equal, and he meant it, with every fibre of his being: he meant that they were to be equal, in this at least. That she should be able to instigate proceedings in this, just as much as he did. He did not fear her to be a whore or harlot. He was his Anne, who had been tainted by the cruelty of her first husband, and of her traitorous family.
He was hers to protect and love now; and he would do until he lost his last breath, of that, he felt he was sure.
She stirred on his chest, but she remained sleeping, her hand splayed against his chest, and he smiled as his breath ruffled her hair. She was beautiful, and precious in ways that no other had ever seemed to be.
He knew, without a doubt, that going slowly, at her pace, and with her riding him, had been the correct thing to do. Even if most of the men at court, should they ever know, would laugh themselves into their cups, and say that he was soft-hearted and should have taken her, like a man. It had been right, seeing her above him, like a pagan goddess, bathed in the glow of the fire and guttering candles. It had been good, even as she had fumbled, and gone so agonizingly slowly, before she had gathered some confidence.
Her hands, clutched in his, had been a perfect fit. Their eye-contact, likewise, had taken their love-making to a whole level above what he had experienced before. Her face, not like a common whore, had been nervous and almost afraid. She had ridden him, in short, like a virgin might have done, and he loved her for it.
The smell of her, the way she had been so unsure, despite being a widow, it had made it seem like this was her first marriage, her true marriage. And again, he loved her for it.
He had not been lying when he said he would be a true husband, or that he loved her. He loved in in a way that was devoutly for her, for her skin, her smile, and her thoughts. He loved her, and he hoped that she returned his affections.
He hoped that he had not hurt her as he had begun to thrust back into her. Hoped that her first taste of pleasure had not scared her, or made her think it was sinful. If this was sin, then he saw why some must allow in it. It was delicious, and why any would call this sinful, he would not know.
He had been married less than a day, and already he was exalting it, and her, to the highest order. This, then, truly must be love. Love and bliss. Perhaps, this was why his brother, the King, had so many children. This marital bliss was enough to turn any man into a father to many.
Anne moved again, and he felt he come into wakefulness.
"Richard?" She asked, looking up at his face, smiling slightly.
"My Anne. My dear Anne, I trust you slept well?" She blushed, a blush that seemed to stain both her cheeks and chest…
"I did, and you, my lord?" She replied, smiling in the simpering way that only girls can.
"Indeed, although I would sleep better if you were to call me by my given name when we are abed." He replied, smiling as she nodded, her face seeming to re-construct itself into what she usually wore at court.
"Anne, my dear Anne. Do not wear such a false face, I beg you. I wish only to see your face as it comes, do not try and make pretences for me-" But, she cut him off quickly,
"It is not- my lord, I mean Richard. It is just that I fear that I did not," She was blushing furiously now, trying to avoid his gaze, "That I did not please you, last night, and that…and that it may seem I was wanton last night for-" She seemed incapable of looking at him now, but instead at her hands, pale, delicate hands.
One of which bore his ring.
"Anne, last night was our wedding night, and never could a wife have pleased me more. You are no more a harlot then a nun is. And as for pleasing me, do not fear on that account my dear wife. My love. My Anne., for you were, as in everything, perfect for me." And with one finger, he lifted her chin up, so their gazes could once again meet.
She was smiling, perhaps with some uncertainty, but smiling nevertheless. Perhaps she feared the growing arousal he could feel within him, or perhaps she feared that he was lying. Regardless, he would prove himself right, that their love was right, and that he loved her, regardless of anything.
He loved her as the sun loves the moon, and she loved him with equal measure.
Together, they were untied, and together they would remain in love, even if death's grip stole the other away, and even if death did, then he would remain faithful.
He was a man of honour, a man of love. He would do anything for his Anne, and she, anything for him.