Gayle Eden (11 page)

Carefully she drew it free and stood with it in her hands. The design on the leather matched the shield, a motto in Latin under it. Carrying it to the bed, Illara set it down and went to the fire to light a splinter. With that, she touched the wick on the candle by the bed. She blew it out and sat down again, sliding against the stone wall and extending her legs out on the fur, crossing her ankles as she opened the cover.

The family tree was there, the bloodlines starting in France with the name Ronan. He had a son that died, named Pagan also. She traced down with her finger until Eadwyn’s name was written with Anne—the mother’s bloodlines were connected with the queen. The children, three stillborn, before Faith and Rebecca, and two called Thorel and Ronan, whom she knew was Pagan and Randulf. The grandchildren, pitifully young, were listed. Illara felt before turning the page that the deaths would be there.

She sighed and saw them, the dates entered likely by Pagan, even his own and Randulf’s. But the children… they were so very young. She ran her finger over the names, not able to imagine what that young man felt like, torn between fighting, saving his nephews and nieces, only to have them die horribly—likely blaming himself for going back and leaving them.

Illara saw other names: Bailiff: chambermaid, servants, and more kin. Some thirty cousins, more of the brother in law’s kin. There were three pages of dwellers in Dunnewicke. The sheer number of people dying on the same day, or within one week, was stark.

Turning other pages, she found entries in a hand that must have been his fathers. A seal mark was stamped at the end of the page. These were personal entries, the sadness at the stillbirths; joy in each child who lived, and when sons were born, a feast that lasted seven days.

There were many lines saying simply, we depart for York, or leaving for London, and the fairs were marked, apparently, the entire family went along. Milestones, the accounts entered of his son’s first hunt, how Faith had an affinity for hawking, and when Ronan fell from a horse and was ill for days.

It was remarked that his children were tutored, and apparent that Eadwyn had learned much from his time in Syria and other lands, and believed strongly in centers of learning. He was not just a man of war.

She found three blank pages before the bold scrip on the next came. Written in French, it was as if she could hear Pagan’s raspy voice when she read it…

We emerge from hell having the reminder of its flames burned into us. No longer a believer in hope and certain that justice and truth are empty, Ronan and I on that journey out of he abyss—looked at each other—our eyes having seen no other mirror, and from the pain, could only guess what would be reflected back.

Only we, had witnessed the transformation from our old selves, over the course of the ordeals. I saw him. And, he saw me. Nevertheless, we would not let each other die. We dreamed it, and have never stopped, and before our freedom, I know, we each privately summoned death, yet it never came.

One can exist in torment, in purgatory, and live despite the mind being crazed with pain.

God did not deliver, thus I bargained with a devil named Bretel. I did not feel any human emotions as I walked to that prosperous abode and slipped into the merchant’s chambers. I delivered his heart to he who wanted it, feeling it beat against my palm. Lylie was left with him—Bretel—and I have no mind to think upon what was visited upon her until my return. However, he took her gold, the silver chains, and enough jewels to live happily, with his merchant’s widow. We thought of nothing, felt nothing of our pitiful state, but later gained our freedom amid the dung of a manure cart.

Lylie had somehow made the acquaintance of a merchant named Le Maistre, who held the deeds and useless charter to Dunnewicke. She found him a shrewd but silly man who drank and whored to excess, and who was aged enough to not enjoy life much longer. She, though her own private means, had him deed the properties to Pagan de Chevel, knowing that few would link the de Chevel name from my mother’s side.

Happily supplying him with drink and whores, she found him dead in the winter and arranged transport of his body back to a son in France.

Thus we, Ronan, now Randulf, and I, could reside in the castle and heal, plan our rise from the ashes. There was no question but that we would visit those who robbed us of life and family. We have oathed this, vowed it in our own blood, and over the graves of our kin. Murder is too swift and too painless. We have a better way.

“What are you doing here!”

Illara jumped and closed the book, her gaze swinging to the door where he stood. Pagan was masked, filthy and so long at his training that she smelled his sweat amid the dirt.

“I wished to talk to you.”

His eyes flickered to the book.

She said swiftly, “I was not prying. They are my family also. I am your wife. I thought… I did not know why you have stayed away from me. I feared I had done something wrong, and I want… I want to speak with you.”

“Get out,” he said it soft, rasping and a chill went down her spine.

Illara stood cautiously, her eyes on him, and then she walked across to the door. Stopping where she could look up at him, she said with honest emotion, “I can’t feel what you feel. I cannot know it all in a real sense, because they are not my memories and my experiences. I cannot say that. But I can say that I understand the importance of purpose, and I understand why you exist and do what you choose to do.”

His mouth was hard and body rigid, so she did not try to discern between anger or whatever emotion it was. She’d come here for a reason.

“I’m not just the wife of the Lord of Dunnewicke. I am the bride of the beast of Northumberland. The Lady to the Black Knight, and the prize of Pagan de Chevel. I will be that, and proudly, with you—”

“Nay.”

”Yes. I go with you, Pagan. When you leave, I leave, and when you return—”

“Nay. I cannot—”

“You will not have to worry about me. I can ride and see to myself. I do not mean to be treated as some fragile lady or distract you. I will not need taking care of. I do not want to be here waiting—I can do nothing here, be nothing, until you have finished what you must. I am no Lady of the castle until my husband is ready to see himself as Lord. Until then, I shall be as you are, and I will not care of the mockery and names—I will be with you.”

Pagan closed his eyes and turned, striding out into the hall, and then he stopped. “I must bathe from this dirt. You will not be here when I return.”

She followed him, all the way down the stairs, noticing Pagan had sweated through the leather shirt, and that his sleeve was sliced down from elbow to wrist.

“I could bathe you.”

“Illara.” Pagan stopped mid stairs and turned, falling as if weary against the wall and looking to where she stood two steps behind. “Go. Go and—”

“—
You are weary, tired, you’ve pushed yourself these last few days.”

His teeth grit. “By all that is holy, leave.”

She should. Pagan was short on tolerance and that was dangerous. Yet she wet her lips, swallowed, and drew courage again. “You once said, I had stealth. I will only follow, if you leave without me.”

He raised his hand and covered his eyes in the mask. “Christ, woman.”

“I will not make you sorry.”

His hand dropped heavily. His voice was deep as Pagan grated, “I cannot do what I must. Travel swift and keep my mind to the task, with you to worry about.”

“You will not worry about me. I am not reckless, nor stupid, and I can see to myself. I will not distract you.”

He stared at her as if she were daft.

She grimaced. “I promise.”

Finally Pagan rolled his head, looking somewhere upwards. “I must bathe. Have food sent to me here.”

As he started below again, she chanced, “Does that mean—”

“—
It means I’m filthy, tired, and hungry.” Pagan grouched.

Illara wisely said no more. However, when he turned into the lower chamber, she headed out to fetch his food herself. It was not going to be easy to convince him. She had known that. Illara was prepared to suffer a bit until he saw the light. She was going with him.

It took the assistance of two young men to tote the food to the tower. Once in the doorway, she thanked them. Then, called out, “It is I. I’ll bring your meal there.” She ignored the curses and heard the splashing going on.

Illara was glad for a small bit of light Pagan left glowing when she carried in the trays and jugs. She caught a glimpse of him with his back to her, an uncovered back, as he sat in a smaller bathing pool than was in the keep. This one was likely deeper, it appeared more like a well with a ledge save there was tile around it.

The food she laid on that ledge, his back was close enough to touch but Pagan had a cloth pressed to his face. The last of it brought in, she used the opportunity to notice that although broad and muscled, there were lighter patches of skin, ridges and dents amid the muscles. It was mellowed by the candle he had burning, but his back and shoulders were in truth a mass of scars.

She did as she had with his hands and ignored them, and when she did that, all that remained was a magnificent knight with all the power and brawn they were famous for.

Standing back further, she enquired, “Shall I come here in the morning for our talk, or will you visit me?”

Pagan grunted. “I will come to you.”

A warm shiver worked over her and she murmured before turning, “I like that phrase, Pagan. I do.” She left him to his bath and meal.

Chapter Five

She would destroy him. Pagan thought this, draining the gritty water from his hard scrubbing and filling the cistern again. He had scoured his hair and body so hard in his anger that the thinner skin over the scars burned. Now Pagan stood there, plate and cup balanced on the ledge to eat—tired, sore, and irritated, even before he had discovered her in his tower.

Pagan chewed the food with no taste, and drank to fuel his body, his lower half being soaked when he stopped the taps. The tanks were empty of heated water. Because of her, because of his softening, and his hungers, he had lost sleep, and lost focus whilst drilling with Randulf. His brother was not amused and not tolerant. They had argued until Pagan dropped his hands and walked off.

Randulf followed him to where he had sat on the ground against the rear wall. Sitting beside him, his brother had waited for him to explain himself.

“I will be ready when the time comes.”

Randulf grunted. “You were never not ready, until now.”

Looking at the rear of the castle Pagan had said, “I never set out to feel for her. I thought too much of me dead and buried, to hunger for anything—things I know will make me vulnerable.”

After a silence, Randulf murmured, “You’ve consummated the union, I gather.”

“Aye.”

“So bed her often and let us be about what needs completed.”

Pagan shook his head. “The more you taste honey, the more tempting it is to risk the stings to have it.”

“Very well. I will finish the deed myself.”

When his brother stood, Pagan arose and caught his shoulder before he could walk off. “Nothing has changed. I leave in a week. We leave.”

Randulf shook his head and pulled his shoulder free. “Your marriage changes things, brother. It changes you.”

“Nay.”

His brother laughed softly and advised, “Either accept it, and do what you must to find your focus again—or leave the thing to me. Perhaps it’s time.”

Even now, Pagan remembered returning to the grounds and putting all his fury and proving that he was not changed into the practice. He had made himself remember everything he had lost, and by staying away from her, he could find the focus again.

“Bloody Christ.” Pagan pushed the plate so that it toppled off the edge. He sat down in the water again, submerged to the neck. He reclined and tried to forget how she appeared, how she smelled, how she tasted. Unfortunately, when she had stepped near him in the tower room, he’d stank of sweat, and she had smelled of jasmine. Her eyes were so full of emotions that his hard tone was more from the stirring of his body—despite his fatigue, than from anger.

He gave up. Pagan arose and drained the water, grabbed up the toweling and stepped out. Wrapping it around his hips, he tossed the plates onto the tray and carried it to the hewn bench by the door. He drained the jug of mead, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and went to fetch his filthy clothing and mask.

Half afraid she would be in his chambers, Pagan stood in the doorway to check, ready to don the mask if need be. It was empty.

He padded in, snatched up a comb, and sat down on the bed. Working tangles from his long hair, Pagan was rough and absent doing it, his mind still wrestling with his emotions. When the mane was fairly tamed, he stood and discarded the towel and lay down upon the fur.

The firelight had lowered. It cast shadows in the room. Turning his head, Pagan spied the book that still lay there, and he picked it up, holding it in his hand, eyeing the motto and shield on the front before he carefully laid it on the floor.

Stacking his hands behind his head, he welcomed even a mist of colder air threading in from the window. His ribs lifted by the rise and spread of his arms, he breathed steady, listening to the thud thud of his heartbeats whilst looking at the ceiling… but seeing Illara Pinpricks of awareness blanketed his skin. Bunched muscles in his thighs and arms moved. Pagan shifted his legs, as the fur suddenly seemed to caress his sack. Closing his eyes did not help. He remembered her lips, how they felt against his, and how her tongue laved through his mouth. He thought of her breathing, the sensual arching and grinding, the trembling tips of her breasts.