LEGENDS...

They called her Lady of Frost, a fabled beauty whose allure no man could resist; yet neither could any breach her icy reserve.

She called him Lord of Nothing, a knight with no land, no family, only a name made great by song and story; a name as a lover unrivaled who could win any maiden, yet never lose his own heart.

OF THE FALL

To each, romance was a game, a contest of wit and will, a match to be wagered upon and won at any cost. But in those dark days of shifting loyalties and twisted secrets, seduction was far more that courtly ritual. It was an all-or-nothing play for power in which one misstep could bring a fall. And falling in love was the most dangerous thing a woman could do.

And so it was that she was married in good time.

She had completed her fourteenth year and was as soft and warm and golden as the day itself, her hair of burnished and shimmering gold and her eyes as blue as summer. She took her place by her husband's right hand, and waited upon his pleasure.

The priest in that darkened chamber of stone murmured his prayers, and turned his eyes from heaven to look upon the bride. He urged her to do rightly by her father and her lord, bringing honor to both their houses by proving the fertility of her loins.

As she was called upon to do, she submitted her will and her life in perfect piety. Her head was bowed and her eyes clear of guile as she promised to do all that a woman should do in this earthly life.

Her father, that strong knight of fame, grunted his own admonition, which she received in all humility and good heart. The priest blessed her and blessed her new-made husband, he whose name for fighting and for wenching had settled upon him like a warm cloak of comfort. For is a man not made for such doings and such a name? And was he not a man to make a father proud and cause a daughter's heart to tremble in delighted fear at a contract so well made?

Aye, it was so and more. 'Twas a match to make all glad.

The ceremony concluded, both father and priest departed, leaving husband and bride and one more within the cold stone walls of an early spring. One more to watch and witness and wait. One more, a woman of her father's house, to see that what was done was as it must be done. To tell the tale of what befell in that conjugal chamber. To tell what she did see befall between a husband and a virgin bride.

'Twas the second night of their bond and, by the bride's own telling, there was much to see.

Or rather, by her word, there was much not to be seen.

With a look to the lady of her father's house, the bride bared her breasts to the man who had claimed her. White and round they were and gleamed like alabaster in the soft light of fire as it teased shadow and stone. She cupped her breasts in her hands, holding them for her husband's approval and finding it in his eyes.

The lady of her father's house urged her to keep on, to tempt the man who stood before her, to bring him to fullness, to bring him to need. And so the bride walked across the boards to her husband, her breasts soft and warm, and when she reached him, she stretched out her hand and took him within her grasp.

All this was watched and approved by the lady of her father's name.

And yet he failed to rise.

So yet the lady chided the bride and told her to warm her chill hands by the fire's heat, bringing warmth to them both with a loving grasp gone hot. And so she did, this submissive maid, performing all as she was instructed, her very heart determined to be all that a wife should be to a man.

She knelt by the fire, her breasts a beacon of desire for any man, and held out her hands to the flames. Her hair tumbled down her back and across her shoulder, a shimmering fall of shining gold and amber. A rare maid and beautiful. God had not cheated her of that which men hold dear in their women. Yet her husband's desire was slow to rise, which surely is against God's design and plan.

Her hands warmed, she turned and knelt with the fire at her back, facing her husband, her blue eyes soft and yearning, her manner docile and submissive; in all ways she was a wife to please a man.

At the lady's urging, the man came forth, his member lit by fire as he drew near. With gentle touch, she stroked him, murmuring words of love and duty, willing in this and in all ways to be his wife. With a smile, she stroked him, pressed him, teased him. With a furrowed brow, he watched her, listening to her words, listening to her promises.

Yet still, he did not rise.

And so it was that the lady saw all was as the bride had told it. He could not rise. He could not consummate. The marriage was null. The bride was a maiden still and would a maiden remain.

And so it was that Juliane of Stanora lost the husband arranged for her and became known as Juliane le Gel, for though she was rich in beauty, it was the beauty of winter frost and men lost their heated passions when she cast her eye upon them.

And so it was that from that day all saw that her eyes were the blue of winter ice, her hair the gold of frost-burned autumn grass, her skin as smoothly cold as white alabaster.

Still, men came to her, drawn to her beauty and her wealth, eager to test themselves against her ice, and yet not a one of them could rise high and hard when she smiled upon them.

And so it was that the legend of Juliane le Gel was born.

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