Gayle Eden (25 page)

The Marshal blew the horn when only Pagan and Stroth faced each other. The melee complete. The next morning Stroth and Pagan would face each other in the joust.

The remaining knights could face them down the lists, until victories or losses in points or death—would announce the final victor.

Illara witnessed the crowds on their feet and heard the music springing up from all over. There was carnage among the combatants, and the field was churned up with hooves, stained with blood. It made her realize that truth had a price, and honor was paid for on fields of battle, by the essence of life.

Though torches were lit, people were dispersing, knights and guards around her were leaving and the field was being dragged to level it for the next day.

As Pagan came abreast of her, he leaned down and gave her his hand. She took it, grunting as she swung up behind him. They rode toward the castle amid some praise. Many shouted good wishes came from those heading to tents and camps.

Ronan came alongside them and had pulled off his helm. His face masked, his hair sweat heavy. He muttered, “If you don’t beat her, brother, I will.”

“
Nothing short of locking her in the dungeons would have kept her off that field.”

Ronan shook his head. “Are you well?”

“I’m too numb and hurting all over to tell,” she managed to groan out.

A smile teased her brother in law’s mouth. He said before going ahead, “I’ll not expect either of you in time for supper. Pagan has an ointment that will help.”

Illara sighed and was in some numb state when her husband set her down off the horse before the stable.

“Go through the rear halls. Await me in the bathing chambers.”

She turned to do that, and had walked perhaps twenty paces before she realized what was going on. Every person of the castle, every knight, and guard, even those who were limping and sporting bandages—had stopped and were on one knee.

Illara peeked back over her shoulder to see a helmless Pagan standing at the stables watching. He looked around, came forward, and went around her, going also to one knee in front of her.

Gulping, she wet her lips and bowed, trying to think of something to say, for she had thought to keep herself disguised. When she lifted from the bow, she caught sight of Ronan standing with the Marshal and watched her brother in law, go to his knee.

“If I get down with you, I shall fall flat on my face, so weak are my limbs,” she called out finally. “I am not so sure our enemies do not have rocks for heads.”

Laughter floated across the courtyard and everyone began to stand.

When Pagan did, she held her hand out and took his.

“The people are one. Just as Pagan and I are. Dunnewicke has always been a nurturer of life and family, of friends, and duty—of honor. I bow to everyone, who in any manner, small or large, this day upheld that.”

She and Pagan began to walk toward the castle. It was a moot point for her to hide herself now. As she passed the Baron and Marshal, Illara thought she saw a grin on that strong face, before he covered it by rubbing his hand over his mouth.

In the castle was the same, even though servants were busy with laying the tables with food, she nodded and removed her helm, smiling at them in return, before going up with Pagan. He started the water and began divesting her of armor and mail, the linen underclothing.

There was hardly a place on her not chaffed or raw and turning bruised.

“I will return. Get into the water.”

She did, falling into it and under—and just floating that way until breath was needed. Now she knew what continual life of a Knight was like—she hadn’t the stamina nor the build for it. Nevertheless, she was proud of herself.

He exited but eventually returned, divested of armor and wearing a linen tunic and breeches, carrying a bowl and plugged jar, which he placed down, before dousing the light. It was pleasant to bathe in the dark, Illara thought, pleasant to just float her sore muscles on the water.

She heard him bathing for some time, that intimate sound of trickling and soap on skin. Then Pagan was there, washing her, his hands kneading and turning her at will, until she was clean. It was as relaxing as it was stimulating.

Pagan guided her out and onto a long pad of folded cloth. She lay like unraveled twine whilst he rubbed her with herbs and oils.

The noise of the guests and feasting drifted up, but Illara rolled to her back after Pagan had rubbed every inch of skin, and sighed, moaned and groaned too, as his hands massaged, fingers rubbed muscles that quivered and ached. It shouldn’t have, but it stirred her to hear his low sexy chuckle when she groaned and sighed. And she should have been too battered to feel anything but that, yet his hands massaging her upper thighs made her want to open them further and invite his touch.

He obviously read it. When he was finished, he skimmed his palm up and rubbed between her legs. Illara’s eyes opened to his dark shape. His hair down—Pagan was not masked. He was too much in shadow for her to see details, but she had felt the shape of his face bones and no matter the marred skin, he was beautiful to her... Her giant warrior with his long raven mane.

She opened herself, her legs, and sex to him. Her breathing heavy and sluggish as Pagan rubbed, slickened, and petted sensually at that nub. Tenderly he fingered her to a climax that relaxed every muscle—and nearly had her drifting off. By the time he carried her to bed, she was dozing. However, she heard him whisper as he kissed her brow. “I will have Lylie bring a covered tray up, for when you wake.”

She snuggled in the covers and murmured, “Did you hear me say—that I love you.”

His voice was hoarse, deep, as he replied, “Aye. I heard.”

Illara slipped into a dreamless slumber.

Chapter Thirteen

The Marshal set himself on Pagan’s left during the meal. It escaped no one’s notice that there were fewer at the table, as well as fewer knights at the lower ones.

However, after they had eaten, the Marshal, who had been silent and serious at his business mostly, sat back and stared at Pagan.

“Stroth paid me a private visit. He insisted that the melee be declared void because word spread that your wife, and a female, participated. His humiliation at fighting on the field with a woman aside.” The older man grunted. “He was also met afterwards, with those knights of the Baron’s castle—withdrawing and declaring themselves satisfied on the question of murder or defense. I understand they have taken themselves off and out of England for a spell.”

The man stared at Ronan, next, down at his wine goblet in thought. “I explained to Stroth, that even if the melee were declared void, it did not change the events on the morrow. He will still face Pagan on the field—and win or lose.”

Pagan asked, “Where does that leave Ronan?”

The Marshal looked between the two, and then settled his gaze on Pagan again. “Ronan has no direct challenger. We have the right to name a champion, in a case where the accused cannot defend himself. However, this is not the case. I kept count of his prowess today, and over half eliminated were from his sword. I went to each man who was still able and without wounds to give the option—of facing him on the field. They have each withdrawn and acceded his victory.”

Pagan stared at his brother. “Hence, no matter what the outcome, on the morrow, he is clear?”

“Aye. His properties, and name, and the rest.”

Pagan nodded and turned back to the Marshal. “Stroth is a hot headed man, burning with the guilt he himself created when he betrayed my father. He will not be satisfied with mere points on the field, nor will he let it end.”

“If you best him, it matters not what he thinks.” The Marshal met his gaze. “He’s to be exiled. You will gain his forfeited lands.”

“I do not want them.”

The king’s man smiled and arched his brow. “When all is settled and restored, you will be expected not only to revive the city, but to train knights, and see the ceremony done for your own. Perhaps reward your best men with a farm or manor? Do not let your pride short sight you, Pagan. If your father were here, he would tell you the same. In some ways your life has been at a standstill, but your rightful place, if restored, carries with it all the expected duties, and responsibilities that a lone knight roaming the Tourneys escapes.”

“I will think on your words.” Pagan nodded then lifted his cup and drank, saying as his lips touched it, “—after the morrow.”

* * * *

Wakening before daylight, Illara heard about the changes from Lylie, whom she sought out after dressing and eating the food placed in her room the evening before.

She felt heavy armed, and her legs were not much better. She donned breeches and tunic, a light cape, and a plain doeskin cap before she sat in the bustling kitchens, watching Lylie mix some herbs for the men who were treating wounds.

Her hands cupped around a silver goblet of warm mead, Illara murmured, “This will be difficult for Ronan. Although he accounted himself with skill and conquered, I know how close he is to Pagan, how much this fight for justice means to them.”

Lylie wiped her hands on her apron, and called one of the younger girls to take the mixture to the barracks. She nodded for Illara to follow her outside. They sat in the rear courtyard, seeing the signs of spring stubbornly trying to show it in the budding trees and bushes, the dried garden that needed turned and tended.

“I’ve thought of that too, and when he sits at your side today, perhaps he will be able to understand that he too has sacrificed and earned what he has won.” The woman tucked a strand of hair back into her cap. “Though he will be a lord, Ronan is ever a knight. I cannot help but think how proud their parent’s would be of them. How humbled Eadwyn would be at their bravery, their struggles, and their deep love and bond.”

Illara nodded. “Pray for Pagan today.”

“We all have. Each of us spent an hour with the priests.” She added, “It makes a difference that the Marshal will govern the combat. I doubt Stroth, like his compatriots, ever adhered to rules. He is a foolish man, but it will take more than his raving and threats to affect the Baron, a man who stands for the king himself. “

“
Aye.” Illara stood. “I’d best go and find my place in the gallery.”

They embraced.

While Illara walked to the crowded stands once more, she saw the preparations for the tilt to go forward, and nodded to the men on the field. There were eyes on her too, and eyes on Ronan, who showed up a bit later, seating himself beside her and wearing plain garb and a mask, but a broach, which bore the family coat of arms.

As before, there was the formal procedure and speeches. The Marshal and a crier taking up an hour until the sun hung overhead. The crowd stirred as Pagan appeared in his armor and Stroth likewise. There were men standing on Pagan’s side, and none but a plain clothed man on that of Stroth.

“Do you want to stand on your brother’s side?”

Ronan glanced at her. “He asked me not to. He gave me charge over you.”

She felt her stomach tighten, meaning if he died—she shook her head and replied, “God would not wish both myself and Sefare on you.” She made herself smile.

He grunted at the mention of that wife, and it occurred to Illara that he would certainly have to deal with having wed when all was finished. However, he muttered, “If anything happens, I’m going to challenge Stroth, and keep challenging until he’s dead and rotting.”

Illara took his hand. “Pagan is champion at this. He will win.”

“
Aye. He will.”

The men were given six lances each, weapons that were not blunted and that were inspected by four men of the Baron’s choosing. Neutral, Illara gathered, watching them line on opposite sides for the first pass.

The fact that they were not blunted frightened her more than she could articulate. On the first pass, she was holding to Ronan’s hand as tightly as he was hers.

Stroth gained a hit that dented the shoulder plate on Pagan. The crowd was thunderous and heckling, but quieted on the second pass. Pagan got a hit, a blow that rocked Stroth and took the tip of Pagan’s lance.

The third had Illara on her feet, her brother in law too—for the lances struck and shattered and both knights were even scored.

“He knows what he is doing.”

She did not spare a glance for Ronan who said it. The fourth came and Pagan struck a blow that centered on Stroth’s chest. The breastplate curved inward and the knight lost his hold on his lance and leaned forward.

There were tense moments after Pagan rode back to his point, and men rushed to Stroth. One could tell that once he straightened and caught his breath, the knight was furious. He kicked out at one of the men, earning a reprimand from the Marshal, but was too angry to care.

Illara knew when he took up the lance and began, he wanted to kill Pagan.

Pagan apparently discerned it too, for he seemed to expect the high aimed blow that tore the visor from his helm. The crowd was screaming curses at Stroth, but the man was in his own rage-filled haze. Pagan shook his head as one of the guards offered him another helm. He took up his lance and nodded toward the judges.