Gayle Eden (24 page)

Those barons who had accused her and those who betrayed Pagan and Ronan’s family had withdrawn any statements—and departed with the King for the Holy land. That left only one who held to his claims about the Lord of Dunnewicke, and about Pagan and Ronan. There remained twenty, who claimed Illara murdered the Baron—and claimed that Pagan de Chevel ordered her to do so.

They too, called Ronan and Pagan sons of traitors.

“Who is he?” She had asked

“Stroth,” Pagan uttered grimly.

The Marshal had nodded.

The accusers had the day to gather those who wished to join them. After the melee, any who were standing would fight a more regulated and strict duel—on the following morning—facing Pagan in the final joust.

The first morning was fog laden but cleared to a weak sun. The Tourney grounds were overflowing with people. The air of tension was only left to those in the castle—the rest were excited and morbidly curious. It was only to those of Dunnewicke, that the matter of life or death seemed serious.

Pagan had spent the night with his brother in the chapel; many priests and monks were anointing and chanting, observing rituals that included some of the visiting knights, perhaps enemies on the field, but devoutly observing prayer the night before.

Illara spent her morning as normally as possible, and only departed for the tower room when she heard the bell from the chapel ring.

She looked around at the open windows and smelled the morning air as she disrobed again in Pagan’s chambers. When Pagan entered, some moments later, he wore a plain linen tunic and breeches, soft boots and his mask.

Illara wordlessly held her arms out to him, and Pagan likewise met her, scooping her up, he carried her to the fur covered bed.

Their kisses and the lovemaking that followed was silent, deep, and filled with a slow hunger as if they could not feast enough, nor feel enough and neither wanted it to end.

Their bodies strained, palms smoothing and never letting the other get too far apart. Breath scuttled hotly, mouth against mouth, and teeth and tongues laved, supping the essence of skin, their need greater than time or the tension their bodies would allow.

However, when it did end and Pagan lay beside her still. Illara leaned over and kissed him, and then silently went to dress. As she did so, she felt his gaze on her like a touch, watching her in the morning light. The gown and slippers on, she walked to his armor and sword and placed a kiss upon them, before slipping out.

Bathing afterward, Illara donned a rich black and red gown. She drew her hair up in a black velvet cap with emeralds along the brim. Standing before the mirror, she latched across her hips, a belt of gold and jewels, and then came heeled slippers, before fitting a cape of silk on her shoulders.

Moistening her lips, she remembered Pagan’s tongue laving them, his kisses tasting them, and his fingers tracing their shape as he was on his knees, his sex stroking her inside. Her eyes glowed with mists and memories of his heat, scent, his touch; his taste was still in her mouth.

Drawing a steady breath, she exited the solar and walked down the stairs, finding two guards awaiting her. They led her down to the Tourney field for the ceremony and reading of the rules and judicial laws.

She stood upon a dais by the Marshal, her husband and brother in law just behind her in fine velvets and leather breeches. At one point in the long reading, heedless of the crowds and curious eyes and jeers, Pagan put his hand on her shoulder, and pulled her back more toward him.

She thankfully leaned against his strength, feeling his heart beat steady and sure.

She moved her hand and caught Ronan’s and they shared a subtle squeeze before she let it go. The Marshal signaled and both men exited to ready themselves.

While challengers prepared, entertainment and exhibitions took place on the field. Illara saw none of it. Her mind was on her husband, who was likely having Ivo and Beroun dress himself and Ronan in their armor.

She imagined that rich black hair was being twisted and tied into a rope, that each piece of armor he drew on was another layer of memories from the many enemies he had faced in the past. The many challenges he overcame through courage.

They appeared soon in the center of the field. Ronan and Pagan were magnificent and intimidating in their armor. Ronan in his crimson—astride his white charger—his red mask in place. Pagan in black likewise, a large, dark and fierce figure.

They sat their horses in the center of the Tourney field, side by side.

Pagan held against the ground, a tall and unfurled banner with the crimson background and the black raven, divided with the insignia of Illara’s father—the same that flew over Thresford castle: a red hawk on a white background. Ronan fisted a crimson banner with a silver wolf. He had taken it as his own from his ancestor.

Their main accusers came to face them and Illara’s with them. The Knight, Stroth, in silver and black, his horse in a blanket of silver with black edging. The others wore the dead Baron’s colors. The Marshal read the kings rules and the laws governing judicial challenges.

During that time, the moments before the elimination melee, Illara slipped away.

With Lylie’s assistance, she donned her golden mail, the half-black and half-white armor with a hawk and the raven divided on her breastplate. In place of a broadsword, she used the curved Arabian sword she found in the storerooms, one she had confidence in her balance with.

In her other hand was a shield similar to the banner her husband held. The young armorer had made all for her. Her gauntlets were black, her shield white and gold. She had arranged ahead of time for one of the young lads to fetch the horse Pagan had let her use in the practice yard, and dress it out in the new blanket and head gear that the ladies of the castle had sewn for her.

From her helm rose a plume of dyed red to represent her brother in law too. After dressing her, Lylie hugged and kissed her, weeping but wordless.

She slipped away in order to give Illara the chance to pray.

Illara got down on her knees, her eyes on the trunk holding memories of her parents, remembering the bright days in the sun when she was with her father, his voice so clear in her head. There was too, the laughing face of her mother, and the dignity, in which she carried herself, those intelligent eyes, and warm voice.

She mused on the day that they died for the first time, allowing herself to remember the struggle and pain, and how hard it was to let them go to a better peace. She opened her eyes and looked up through the open window shutters, to a fan of sunlight that sprayed into the solar. She believed in honor as much as she believed in love. All that her parents gave her was seeped in dignity, honor, truth, and courage.

Illara felt at peace with her decision, and felt in her soul that God had given her a champion, not to sacrifice himself for all the things she could have in life—but so that she could find all the things already there—that were deep and strong enough, to remind him too, all that was worthy and real in his own.

They were as vessel and wine, together potent, carrying all the flavors of life in themselves, even joy and pleasure. Now it did not seem grim and bleak that they should face the imperfect justice of the world, to life absolved—or death in infamy. What mattered was now, life, living, and what they gave to it, and each other.

She said a brief prayer her father had taught her, and crossed herself, then arose. Going down through the hall and out the west wing, Illara met the young lad holding her horse, and rendered him a gold coin. He gave her leg up on the large charger. She flipped down her half visor.

Riding upright and eyes ahead, Illara moved up through the rows of four, who had taken position behind Ronan and Pagan, positioning herself behind their captains.

Her eyes scanned over the full stands and people crowded on the walls, and castle beyond. Every servant was out and watching.

The clamor between the challengers and the Lord of Dunnewicke was deafening. On the field, the Marshal and several other finely dressed men were having a heated discussion. Banners hung over the stands and waved in people’s hands. Horns and drums were sounded to try to quiet the crowd.

She leaned the slightest to get a view of her husband, who sat so calm and physically powerful. Illara realized that he was scanning the gallery, his helm turning just the slightest—to search for her.

Illara watched his horse shift and paw restlessly, picking up tension from its master. Pagan made as if to turn, but the Marshal and criers restored enough order so that he and the officials climbed back on their platform. Now her gaze watched only the flag in his hand, which he would drop.

Pagan did not look across at the accusers and their knights. When the cloth fluttered, it was as if in slow motion. Her spurs hit the flanks of her warhorse. The maneuvers and movements from the exercise yard were going through her head.

The accusers charged en mass and without order, Stroth riding for the brothers and the knights like a horde coming to engage the Dunnewicke challengers.

However, she followed the first maneuver, which gave Dunnewicke the outside, before they turned and came at the knights from the side.

Illara looped the reins on the pommel and closed in her target. She shut down all thoughts but striking and unhorsing, and yes, drawing blood or killing. She kept her eyes on the man to the left and right… and coming out the other side, her sword bathed in blood, her arm hurting and body sweating.

She turned as her knights did, and went into the next formations, which had thrown the enemy into complete confusion.

For the next what seemed like eternity, there was nothing but swinging and slashing and hacking—Blood flew, screams of horses mingled with sounds of swords clanging and curses. The smell of horse and sweat and metallic blood intensified with every clash of knight against knight. Every blow that hit her in the passes jarred her from automation to alertness, so that she could keep herself alive to face another and another.

With a river of sweat covering her body, and her own breath rasping painfully inside her helm, when the next formation came, Illara saw that many of the knights were taken from the field or put aside for battle on foot. Some on horseback had lost helm.

As she was assessing her target, she was jerked out of her focus, by a voice she loved.

Pagan’s huge charger nudged her as he put himself at her side, his breathing heavy with exertion and his voice between a moan and growl as he yelled amid the din, “You promised me, Illara. You promised you would not—”

She turned her head and used the edge of her shield to momentarily raise her visor and peer through the depth of his. “I love you, my beast. I love you. I fight for the right to that, more than the right to live. No matter what happens afterwards, know that courage came from a heart and soul you filled with your own bravery and honor. My champion—how could I do less than fight for the right to keep what we have? Nothing matters aside from that.”

She lifted her sword and let down her visor as the signal came. Raising the weapon and nodding toward him.

“Illara!”

As they were charging forward, Pagan used his horse to slow her and the rest of his men went round them to the front of the charge. In the split seconds, they had—before they would join them, Pagan cried out so loud it was heard over the den, “Whoever draws a drop of blood from you, may he take mine also, for your pain is mine, and your courage and joy and passion, my very breath. I love you, Illara. My heart desires you to leave from this arena, and yet, I know you would not go.”

He looked upwards to the heavens and then forward, keeping his horse so close their legs were brushing. “Fight with all your strength, my love. And I will do likewise.”

They surged into the fray together.

An hour later, Illara was almost relieved when she was knocked from her horse. On the ground, she lay a moment still clutching her sword, scarcely seeing through the horses and their riders still engaged in heavy fighting.

She got to her knees, her arm throbbing and body so sore she had to set her teeth to keep from crying. Her arm was a dead weight, and the only thing that locked her grip on the hilt was that first thought—to not let go of it.

She saw in the blur of pain and fatigue, the men who were by Pagan and Ronan’s sword, also unseated or unarmed. The unarmed could not continue to fight, and she was glad they were few in number.

As she made it to a rough-hewn stool, some lad sloshed a dipper of water toward her. She held her free hand under it and drank deeply, then nodded for another. Finishing, she slumped back and let the roar and noise fade out until she could summon some energy to focus again.

“
'Tis nearly over,” she heard a young man say behind her.

Illara sat up and witnessed indeed, that Ronan and Pagan were facing only four.

There were a small number of knights at the far end, being stripped of armor, some bleeding. Horses were being rounded off the field, having lost their riders.

She watched as the brothers waited for the signal, and as if preplanned though likely more from fighting together so often, they each took two. Pagan faced Stroth. They came together with hammering blows and Pagan eliminated his two before long.