Gayle Eden (5 page)

“Go on,” Pagan murmured half amused and not really surprised.

“If you could get to the fairs this winter, I should like to buy books and perhaps…”

He stood and walked over to the corner trunks, hefting them easily and bringing them to the window seat. He opened them and held up the first book.

She sat up in bed, apparently remembered her nudity, and swiftly yanked up the furs, but not before he again saw her round breasts sitting on her chest and that sleek torso.

She whispered, “How. Where did you get them?”

Pagan let the book fall on the stack and closed the trunk, coming to sit again on the bed. “When Lord John was dying and Starling had the castle packed, he brought with him, and later sold goods that he deemed paid for your passage.”

At her frown, Pagan held up his hand. “I imagine it was not luxurious. Starling is nothing if not practical. However, the books made it to markets, and as Randulf and I were in one, I recognized the inscription, to Ysola. I bought all that I could.”

“My thanks.” She reached out and took his hand before he could pull it away. “Is it not ironic, that you championed me and won me as wife?”

“Ironic,” Pagan echoed, feeling her thumb play over what he knew was raised scars.

She had noticed too, but she stared into his hood as if she could bore right in his eyes. Her voice changed upon saying gruffly, “My mother and many of the wives worked in the hospitals. Warriors oft are scarred and wounded from battle. Brave men oft carry the marks of their deeds. My father, if you recall, had lost three fingers and nearly his eye.”

Pagan said nothing for a moment. Then, “These are not from war.”

She squeezed his hand with her smaller one. “From some battle, though, eh? A fight to survive. It is all the same.”

Because her words, her expression, and her kindness moved him, Pagan slid his hand free and moved to stand by the windows. “You should sleep.”

Nevertheless, her voice reached him. “Who is Randulf?”

“My brother.”

“I shall not tell, not anything you confide.”

“I know.” Pagan stared between the shutters at the rise of fog. It looked and smelled like snow. “I must leave soon. There is a winter Tourney on the boarder. You will be safe here, so long as you stay within the castle lands. But the forests…” He wet his lips and went on, “People know of the union and many will abuse and curse you because of it. Though you escape being bound to an accused traitor—you must live with what emerged from his death.”

“This death. How was it possible in the tower?”

“Bribes. And great sacrifice on Lylie’s part. However, for mine, I agreed to murder the guard’s rival…In a--particular manner he desired. The husband of a woman he loved.”

“You did.”

“I did.”

“And the Dunnwicke’s were all dead?”

Pagan closed his eyes as his guts cinched. “Dunnewicke was only the name of the lands, which my ancestors took. But aye, it became a breathing thing, like blood and bones. Once, it was filled with people, with family and light, with children and old men who told stories. And once, it was a gathering place for feasts and friends--before they betrayed us all.”

The fire crackled and a cold wind seemed to rattle the shutters against the bolts.

Pagan heard her say, “I don’t recall if my father mentioned you. I was hardly still in those days, although warriors fascinated me. I envied them and was in awe of them.”

“When I served Lord John it was for a short time.”

“Did Randulf fight?”

“Aye, and does still. He is the knight they call Ronan of Duhamel.”

Pagan could almost feel her breath leave, and was not surprised when she whispered, “I have heard of him. Did he not win accolades in Spain and Italy and France? And is it true that he wounded the prince…”

“‘
Tis true. However, it was not intentional. He was distracted by a face in the Gallery.”

“A woman?”

A slight laugh echoed from Pagan. “Aye. A female.”

“Many wish to defeat and conquer this Ronan.”

“As they do, myself.”

“What does he, your brother, with his rich prizes?”

Pagan turned and found her laying quietly, hands atop the furs that were tucked under her arms, and her head still toward his figure.

“He purchases castles mortgaged by those who betrayed our family. He supplies loans to Barons and knights who wish to travel to the Holy Land.”

“And someday, he will call them in,” she finished.

“Aye. Someday.”

Silence fell between them and Pagan was thankful for the cold air at his back, because the image of her there in that bed burned through his body and mind. He was guilty of thinking little beyond winning her and freeing her from Starlings plans. Pagan would have done so years before and returned her to her lands, but his life, his constant presence at the Tourneys and games was vital. In addition, he departed England at times, to spread his legend further and sell his sword in wars.

Pagan’s skin and muscle, his senses were aware of her femininity. The scents in the room were of that.

“You would not frighten me, you know, should you show yourself.”

“Says one who has not seen me,” Pagan chose a dry scold instead of the tension such temptation caused in him. Pagan offered, “It is enough that you did not run from my presence, nor cringe in fright when I lifted you into bed.”

“Those guards, the ones who touched me—they were handsome, near to flawless. But brutal and cruel. No one touched me in kindness at Starling. They were always grabbing, shoving and pinching. It was difficult not to strike back. I am not sure why I did not, save that I had nowhere to go, and no knowledge of the land, but what I had seen in that castle and the people who came. I do not want pity—”

“Nor do I.”

“I know,” her tone was assured. “For myself however, I would have you understand, that I am four and twenty. I comprehend the difference between abuse and someone who treats me with human kindness.”

He stated, “I am Lord here. The legend aside. I have those under me who must respect me as such.”

“I will not put it about, that you are kind,” She teased on a soft chuckle.

Pagan liked that sound. He decided it was time though, to end the comfortable chat. It was becoming too easy for him to open up to her when he knew such knowledge was not only dangerous, it was not something he and Randulf shared, even with the men here. They might know some truths but neither brother spoke of it. They needed a trustworthy, well-disciplined, and trained army.

Walking toward the door he said, “There will be snow on the morrow. If you wish, after breaking your fast, dress appropriately and I will meet you at the stables for your…exercises.”

“My thanks,” she called, and then gently, “Sleep well, my beast.”

Pagan stifled any response and hurried his stride, leaning back against the door after closing it. Everything in him wanted to strip down and crawl under those furs with her. Not just his body, but also his soul that responded to Illara.

She was no typical Lady and though Pagan expected her to be unique, he had not figured on being drawn to her, not sexually—and not in other ways. He would travel to Thresford too in the early spring. Although Pagan should take her, he supposed, to see her father’s castle. However, he would be gone often until he retired the legend. He did not want anything or anyone to keep him from finishing the deed.

When he retired to the castle, to build the town and his lands, he still could not afford to reveal himself, even were he not scarred.

Chapter Three

There were inches of snow covering the landscape when Illara arose, and more plump flakes drifting down. She had not slept long after Pagan’s departure, having spent much time pondering their exchange.

Now she hurried though and slipped on a soft flannel blouse with close fitting sleeves, a leather shirt over that, and her breeches. The boots were made for another clime but water proofed. She pulled on wool hose before donning them. Soon Illara was sighing at the comfortable clothing after so long in itchy gowns and corset pieces.

Hurrying to the mirror, she combed her hair then braided it and tucked the end under. Then, back to the trunks. Underneath the saddle, was folded her supple hide cloak, dyed with burgundy with a wide hood. Next came her sword and buckler. She drew the weapon out of the sheath, remembering the day her father presented it to her. It was no match for a broad sword, but strong steel, scrolled beautifully and inlaid down the blade. She had curved daggers he had made for her, and other weapons wrapped in cloth, but the sword was her favorite.

She re-sheathed it and fit the strap over her head so the sword rested on her back. Laying out the saddle to show Pagan later, she deposited it on one of the trunks. It took some digging to find her gloves, for she was only allowed wool at Starling and nothing when scrubbing the chapel. She drew on the suede gauntlets, measured for her hands, flexing her fingers in the softness.

Looking at herself, she put her hands on her hips and smiled. Now there was Illara. The woman she knew well. English beauty did not include such strength in lines, yet she was satisfied. She remembered having a beautiful mother and no envy for it. She was conscious that they were forever attending weddings, as even in foreign lands daughters and sisters did not escape being wed young. Her father was too attached to her to care for things like that, but her mother oft reminded her that womanhood was unique and special.

Once she had her menses, Illara disagreed. She wished Eve had found another way to tempt Adam, because a curse it was. Certainly, it interfered with her life too much. However, she did realize what her mother and those females were speaking of. She had seen and sensed the tension and strange pull between her parents. When they were in a lover’s mood as she thought of it, they oft lay abed all day, or rode off into the beauty of the desert until the sunset.

Illara smiled somewhat sadly, not wishing to think of their last days of suffering. She chose to remember that they were well matched and yet a contrast, Ysola with her honey skin and round body, dressed in her silk breeches and tunics, gauzy layers that seemed to float over her, and when uncovered, her hair was gloriously red. She had decorated her body with traditional piercings, and loved to perform the dances as much as she loved her studies. Her father—he was a brawn and hard faced giant, with beautiful moss eyes. He was a warrior who could command and fight, and yet in his home, a man who loved and nurtured his women well.

Turning from the mirror, she headed below, smelling food and hearing voices in the main hall. Illara paused on the landing, glimpsing the tables full and servants in their wool and kerchiefs, serving mead and carrying platters.

She walked toward the Lord’s Table seeing only one plate, and wondered where Randulf ate?

“Won’t you join me, please?” She invited Lylie who came to place a platter of ham and eggs before her. She poured mead into a goblet.

“Thank you. No, my Lady. I am overseeing some winter chores that must be finished.” A smile lighted that visage. “The master says you are joining him in the stables. I see you are wearing a sword and breeches.”

“Yes. I do not mean to offen—”

The woman leaned down and said in her ear, “The last Lady of Dunnewicke went to war with her husband. The first Lady defended the castle whilst the lord was away—donned armor, and later had her own fashioned. You are merely following a great tradition.”

Illara laughed. “That pleases me, then.”

Before leaving the woman glanced at her, holding her eyes and uttered in another tone, “You must be brave, and not fear him. You must learn to see beyond the shroud.”

Illara felt the emotion behind that and recalled what Pagan had said. “I was born brave, Lylie. I was also brought up by wise people. It would take more than surface to turn me from the only man in England who believed in my worth, my honor, and wanted me.”

The smile bloomed more natural and the woman’s shoulders seemed to relax their tension. She forgot herself enough to lay a hand on Illara shoulder as she exited.

Eating her meal, sipping the warmed honey flavored drink, Illara looked around the lower hall, down at the guards and servants, noticing the guards were young, but brawny. Some had the look and skin tone of mixed heritages. There were four older men, one missing an eye, and wearing layers of wool. His fingerless gloves likely kept his joints warmed in the winter air. He, like most of them, had long hair, two, full bearded, and one braided his auburn beard and wore his mane braided in front. They ate with hunger and talked among themselves, laughing, some growling answers, apparently these were the captains over the younger.

When five of the female servants entered, it occurred to her that there were no wives or children apparently of these men. Nevertheless, there was flirting and much flushing and giggling amid the younger female servants, so they were not wholly without female company.

Finished with her meal, she strode to the stairs and went around, down a narrow hall in search of the lower Garderobe. She found it, shivering at the wind whistling up the holes, and after doing her business, she stopped at the water-filled niche to wash her hands.