Gayle Eden (2 page)

She witnessed him placing a pewter jug to warm near the flames. Using one of the benches he had unloaded as a table, he sliced bread, cheese, and pulled a variety of fruits out of a leather sack.

“Eat, milady. The mead will warm soon.” He placed a silver cup near the offering.

She sat on the end of the bench, eating while observing his walk toward the figure at the woods. When the mead was warm, she sat on her haunches and poured her cup full, washing the food down with it.

Given that her furs were thick, Illara sat on the ground afterwards by the fire, the fur parting to show her thick paneled gown beneath and the boots of supple suede she had on. Pushing the hood back, letting it fall, she smoothed her shoulder length hair, feeling the flames warm her face, and make her body almost too balmy.

Her green gown had an under garment, long sleeved and full skirted, of cream flannel and with a low round neck. The gown itself was actually two pieces, a vest piece fitting over her head and falling in a square front and back. The skirt was four panels of thick fabric, and the ends of the vest kept secure by the belt used to hold the skirt on her hips. It was fashioned for travel and riding, but with the fur added, despite the winter air, it was heavy.

She watched the flames and soon pushed the whole fur off, wiping her dewed face with her hands, drawing up her knees, and locking her hands around them.

When she had first came to England her skin had been a tanned honey tone. It still was a warm cream, but any time under a good sun and she would become that toasted hue. White skin, the more pale the better, was prized among women. Illara never would be that pale.

Her green eyes scanned beyond the flames when she heard foot falls in the dried grasses. Though only Randulf came into the light, she could see the outline of that more massive figure in black. The Black Knight had his hood pulled low, and when Randulf poured mead and handed it to him, she noted gloves covered his hands.

Randulf ate too and afterwards excused himself, going toward the hobbled mounts. Although there was more distance between them than not, Illara felt very much alone with that mysterious figure.

The fire hissed, crackled, and somewhere a wolf howled. She wished that one glimmer of light would show his chin or mouth, anything save that void of shadow, because for all her brave thoughts, there were those whisperings…

She was chewing her lip without realizing it, because no matter the depth of that hood, she could feel his eyes on her. Illara observed the figure set on his haunches, those black gloved fingers holding the silver goblet. The flames were between them and he was further back from them, nonetheless, she sensed he had sat lower to view her more fully.

Inwardly bracing she told herself she was twenty and four, not simply four. She was no rabbit to be cowering. Yet when she spoke, there was a husk of her nervousness in it, “Randulf was enlightening me of Dunnewicke. Have you lived there all your life?”

His dark rasp answered, “Most of it, aye.”

Taking courage that Pagan answered her, she went on, “I am told Thresford is a large castle with a gatehouse and towers. My father spoke of it sometimes.” She judged the wisdom of bringing up the fact she had not been born in England but carried onward, “Is Dunnewicke large?”

“Aye.”

She swallowed wanting to lift her gaze from the flames, but almost afraid she would see her worst fears. She stared into them yet. “Lord John was my father.”

“Aye, I knew him.”

Her eyes rose swiftly but she saw nothing, because his head tilted down, deliberately she thought, so no firelight would touch it. “You knew him?”

“Aye, my lady. I fought with him in Jerusalem. A brave man was John of Thresford.”

“Thank you, for saying that.” She let her gaze skim over the impossible breath of his shoulders then down to those gloved hands again--large hands. Her stomach twisted inside, yet she knew she ought to get the worst over with.

“
Sir… My lord, I…I must tell you, that though the accusations made against me are not truth, not in facts. There were things which occurred in Starling that robbed me of the evidence to claim otherwise—”

There was a sound, one that made her jump. His fist crushing the goblet as if it were nothing. Liquid ran over his fingers and onto the ground.

Steeling herself for the backlash, she rushed, “I lay with no man. I gave nothing willingly. They…they held me down and forced an….examination that took...”

“Cease,” he growled.

Her lips closed. Her whole body went still.

After several moments, his next rasp was, “Calm yourself. My tone was not condemnation of you.”

Illara nodded, but could not look up from the flames. Under her lashes, she saw him toss the cup on the ground.

After a heartbeat Illara dared, “There is no poor bargain for you in this. I have had no man. My dowry is yours. Nevertheless, I desire that for once, just one person may hear the truth from my lips. I spoke it to Lady Starling, and was condemned. Again before the priest and was found a harlot.” Her eyes filled with tears but she blinked them back. “Had I been guilty, I would have confessed with still no shame of that magnitude to bare. But those who did the damage knew they were removing any proof to the contrary.”

Pagan spoke again, “Condemnation is the powerful way of playing God and dispensing punishment. That punishment must benefit themselves, if only in their self-righteous bellies.”

Because of the way he said it, she gleaned it was a personal experience, a bitter wound in him. It gave her more courage and more hope; for what sort of beast spoke thus and did not beat her as a husband had the right? He believed her. Moreover, that he did meant more than he could know.

There were a thousand things she meant to say, but what she blurted was, “Why do you shroud yourself, always?”

“Because I must.” He rose slowly and said more abrupt, “The dawn comes swift. Night will grow colder. Randulf has provided a bed for you in the wagon.”

Since he had been much more than she expected or anticipated, Illara obeyed. She stood and pulled her fur around her shoulders and went to the wagon. He was to the side of her now, and as she climbed in and lay on the fur, she discerned Pagan was still there.

Illara murmured, “I have skill. I can handle dagger and sword, most weapons. But they were in my trunks and I was numb with grief and not expecting…”

“The accusers do not always get the last word, Illara,” his voice sounded distant as though he were thinking. “It does not matter in what form the wronged are justified…vengeance is always a flame in the dark, it consumes those who breed their lies in it.”

She had the cloak over her, and lay looking up at the hide covering. “I care more for freedom. Lies become ones prison—ones sentence--where we are consigned to pay for that which we are innocent of. In the truth I have spoken to you, I have my freedom.”

Some sound akin to a bitter laugh seemed to float from him. “Aye, milady. We all have our prison. However, even in that, aye, we can find power. Rest, sleep, there are no more confessions needed. Now you owe truth and vows—to only one man.”

Himself, Pagan de Chevel, Illara thought, closing her eyes. Those vows made him her lord and master.

Chapter Two

Dawn came swift. There was only time for her to see to her needs, gulp a bit of water and chew bread. Back on the loaded wagon, Illara was conscious of her husband, no matter how distant he rode. His words to her the night before and his lack of condemnation made her swear to herself that Pagan be hideous or worse, she would not make him regret championing her.

That dark figure passed speedily by them when they were nearing a village, and though he was before the wagon, his fearsome figure on the pitch horse appeared as if carving their way. She still witnessed the eyes of the people round in fear, and though a few brave lads stood close to the road in awe, most, from the Smith to the goodwives, crossed themselves and ran to bolt their doors.

As they exited the village, she saw a stone arc though the air and strike Pagan in the shoulder. He gave no sign at it, just as he ignored curses and the wrath of God shouted down on his head. All behind his back, of course.

That night they camped on land apparently connected to Dunnewicke. Illara noted the scarred and twisted trees, the blemish of fires, and asked of it.

Randulf, who had set camp, answered, “It was once a picturesque forest but was set to fire. It will take years to recover.”

Given that her husband stayed beyond camp, she did not get to ask him personally, and besides that, Illara sensed a particular mood now, something heavy and dark in the air and even in Randulf, who wasted no time bedding himself down under the wagon.

* * * *

Frost blanketed the land on their morning rise. A mist of silvery white coated everything, so that when they reached the old remains of the city. Its half-tumbling walls, she could distinguish it from the contrast, and see too, on a rise beyond the old cobbled streets, a towering castle with great wings and round towers. Only upon passing the gatehouse did she realize it too was scarred and pocked.

The jingle of the harness and clop of hooves obscured any other clamor. She strained to see Pagan’s entry first, through a gatehouse, several more doors beyond the main one with slots known as murder holes in the structure.

He moved onward to the left, and Randulf turned their wagon to the right and the Keep. The main entry doors were on a second level, flanked by two sets of stone stairs. Anyone approaching from the courtyard, left or right, could access them. The doors were thick iron, high and arched, as had been most of the windows she could make out.

Randulf halted the wagon. Illara climbed down, letting her hood fall back. Noticing the fog lifting, she saw both guards scattered about and other armed men, several craftsmen and servants back in the inner courtyard.

It had indeed been massive, not just the castle itself but the distance from inner courtyards, lower wall, to outer defense walls, which rose twenty feet and would have at one time encircled a great city below. Still, it towered, and the dampness on the stone made it look blackish.

There was a hollow sound above. She glanced up to see the Great hall doors open and a woman stepped out. She was dressed in a black wool gown and wore a sooty scarf on her head.

Randulf pulled her out of her muse by saying, “You may go on, milady, and there will be someone to see to you. I will have everything unpacked and see that your trunks are brought in.”

“Thank you, Randulf.” She glanced at him before slowly walking toward the stairs and ascending them. The closer she came to the woman, the more she could see of a visage, perhaps in her early fifties, a not unhandsome face, though clearly marked with troubles. She met the woman’s smoke gray eyes upon reaching the landing.

“Welcome, my lady. I am Lylie.”

“Thank you for your welcome, Lylie. Please call me Illara.”

She followed as the woman turned and led her inside to a massive Great hall. Arched beams braced overhead and huge chandeliers between them that swaged down on chains, fitted with large candles. There were tables and benches, a clean stone floor and large hearth, which burned brightly.

Though she glanced right and left, also noting stairs and archways, a closed off west wing heavily bolted, Illara, as she opened her cloak, noted the riches in the gold and silver plates lined over the mantle, and in the bowls and trays sitting on the white clothed tables.

Walking toward the hearth, she glanced at Lylie, who held her hand out for the cloak.

The woman said, “The master sent word ahead and the solar above is ready. But if it pleases you, I will bring food and something warm to drink.”

“My thanks. Yes.”

She stood by the fire after Lylie hung her cloak on a peg, seeing as the woman turned back through some entry, the figure of another female servant, who was passing behind a screen before going about. Counting among the riches; tapestries, weapons, and no doubt Tourney prizes tucked in niches, Illara still had the feeling of some violence having taken place to and in the castle. Like the land, it bore the scars in its strength, and bore them with, if not in spite of, some attempt to destroy it.

Lylie entered on silent feet and set a silver plate and goblet at the end of the Lord’s Table. She stood silently by and waited until Illara sat herself.

There was succulent meat and herbed winter vegetables under the dome, as well as nutty bread. Illara gave her thanks then said as Lylie made to leave, “Please, sit. Tell me about this castle.”

The woman did not sit, but went to stand by the fire. “There is no telling of Dunnewicke without telling of the family, and the master alone can approve or disapprove repeating it.”

Illara ate, she drank rich dark wine, and murmured something in response, though she was curious.

She did not doubt there were dungeons under the castle. It was immense. She did not doubt either that the tale would be violent. It did not seem odd to her that such a dark figure as Pagan dwelled here.

Finished with her meal, she arose. The woman was clearing the dish and cup as the doors opened and Randulf came in, followed by two young men dressed in long cloaks and leather boots. They carried her trunks up a set of stairs. She followed them, noting that the plaster walls had been added at a much later date than the castle had been built.