Shana Abe (11 page)

She paused in eating. “And what would that be?”

He hesitated, unwilling to spill his inner self to her so openly, not when she obviously had such a low opinion of him and could skewer him with a single, well-chosen word. “Nothing of interest to you, Lady Kyla.”

She finished the meal, licking her fingers, watching him, and then stretched out fully amid the furs. “Well, hound, you
dogged me into eating. You should be pleased with that, at least.”

“Tomorrow perhaps you shall have the pheasant queen.”

“Yes,” she said, turning her head to study the tips of her toes, peeking past her coverings. “She would be better off on my plate than living the rest of her life alone. Don’t you think?”

And of all the things she had said, that was the one that stabbed him. For he knew she meant herself, but he saw himself there as well.

Roland grabbed the plate and stood. “Sleep well, Lady Kyla. Tomorrow we ride hard.”

He left without another look.

T
he journey back to London went swiftly after the last of the fog wafted away and they passed through the low country. The small army of men drew gawkers whenever they passed a village, people pointing and talking, running in from the fields, crowding into the muddied lanes to stare.

And all noticed Kyla, the lone woman, head back, hair free, the cape a flowing mantle behind her. The slack of the rope that linked her tied hands to Roland’s pommel swayed between their two mounts. He had done it as a safety precaution, hating to embarrass her but unwilling to let his prey slip away this close to the end. Something told him she would be swifter than all of them on that stallion, and he had no desire to put his theory to the test. The rope went around her wrists in the morning and came off again in the evenings, when they camped.

So naturally the people asked about her—Was she a criminal, a rogue princess? What manner of woman needed to be bound amid all these men?

Kyla ignored all of them. She really could have been that princess, so thoroughly did she scorn to answer the questions hurled at her and around her. Roland would have spared her this if he could have. The soldiers brushed off the peasants as
they passed, only pausing to reassure them that they had nothing to fear.

Lady Kyla had taken to silence again; she had not spoken except in simple words since that night in the tent with him. She exhibited neither fear nor apprehension as they drew closer to the great city, merely kept to herself with a frosty demeanor that discouraged all but the most determined of men. He didn’t know what to make of her.

The land they were passing through was becoming less and less wild, the villages closer and closer together. Signs of civilization cropped up more often: dots of white sheep decorating the hillsides; even, narrow strips of earth holding the new growth from the plowed fields. People everywhere, tilling the soil, scattering seed, herding the livestock, staring, staring.

He began to perceive her agitation rather than see it as they came close to a small village that he did not recognize. A flush lit her cheeks, making the paleness of her skin stand out all the more, and for the first time she dropped her royal pose to keep her head down, her hair cloaking her.

He could not fathom the change until the villagers spotted their group and came running over. Nothing unusual about that, but these people were saying her name, talking out loud in shocked voices as they pointed. The crowd swelled to impressive proportions, people coming closer from all over, erupting from the forests. And then Roland saw the stately manor house of warm rose-colored stone, the gabled contours of it set back peacefully amid a green, and saw Kyla look too, just once, before lowering her head again.

What had he been thinking, to bring her past Rosemead, to publicly shame her like this? He had not known they were so close. He had never been here before, he would never have done this on purpose. The lead captain would pay for this, Roland vowed to himself grimly, and was turning to the nearest man to pass a message along to quicken the pace when a young woman, no more than fifteen, broke from the crowd. She ran right up to the column of soldiers, fearlessly darting between the horses until she was at Kyla’s side.

“Milady,” the girl panted, half running beside them, tugging
on Kyla’s skirt. She pressed a ragged posy of field daisies into Kyla’s fingers. “We’re for you, milady,” the girl cried boldly, rousing a chorus from the watching villagers.

Kyla didn’t seem to know what to do. Her fingers closed around the flowers, she looked down at the girl in bewilderment.

“We’re for you,” the girl repeated, then dropped back, letting the procession go by.

R
oland was tired. The nearer they came to London, it seemed, the more tired he became. His close observation of Lady Kyla revealed the same of her. She had been thin at the start of this journey, but now, despite his best efforts to get her to eat, she was growing thinner, her eyes more radiant, her hands more delicate. No doubt she was a fighter, but the worry was wearing her away, and it frustrated him that he could not stop this. Passing Rosemead had not improved her disposition. Indeed, to him it seemed far worse, for now, interspersed with the regal hauteur, he would see crumbling moments of her misery as she clutched the wilted daisies, fighting valiantly against the distress inside her.

To battle the weakness she had created in him Roland focused on Lorlreau, on what his people would be doing right now: sowing their own crops, airing out the castle from the winter chill, the fishing boats casting out every day now, almost, since the weather would be fairer at last. Madoc and Seena, taking charge of the spring, cantankerously directing the very air in the proper way in which to flow.

Harrick, gently persuading everyone to keep calm spirits, and Elysia … how tall would she be now? Would she even reach his hip yet?

But still, through all these musings would come the echo of that moment in the fog with Kyla, the hungry need of that kiss, her plea to him to release her, and his immediate, instinctive refusal. Doubts began to circle his thoughts, questioning not only his decision but also his motivation.

What would have been the harm in letting her go? She had shown him quite clearly what she had to look forward to for the rest of her life, the stigma that would scar her forever. She knew the rules of court as well as he did, probably better. Would it have been more merciful to let her fade away into the mist that day, to give her that final bit of freedom?

But then he would catch himself. Of course he had been right. Perhaps she was an enchantress, eclipsing his reason with her will. Of course he had to capture her. Of course he had to hand her over to Henry. It was not only his duty, it was the best thing to do. He would not consign even his enemy to die in the wild, unwanted, unprotected. And Kyla was not his enemy, no matter what she thought of him.

If he had released her, she would have died quickly this time. He was sure of that. The thought was so appalling to him that he couldn’t bear to examine it.

This ethereal woman, this determined sprite, obviously needed to be protected. But who would do it?

Two days after Rosemead they rounded a grassy hillock and before them spread the outer edges of the city proper, gray stone and wood and dirt and people. The soldiers perked up noticeably, the banter back and forth became more hearty, full of glad tones.

Kyla said nothing, of course, but Roland fancied he could see her hands tighten on her reins. After a while she spoke, looking down at the midnight mane of her horse.

“I have heard the Tower is very dark.”

Roland frowned, trying to interpret the hidden message in her words. “Some parts are,” he said cautiously.

There was a long pause, and he began to cast about for something else to say to draw her out when she spoke again, very softly, almost so he could not hear her.

“I don’t like the dark.” Before he could respond she continued, her voice stronger. “I know you owe me nothing, Lord Strathmore, but I would ask one favor of you. I ask it in the name of my father, if need be. He was a good man, and he spoke well of you.”

Roland waited.

“I would ask you to care for Auster while I am … away,” she said, now finally meeting his eyes. “I do not trust the palace guard to watch him well, and you show a certain fondness for him. And he for you. Would you do this one thing?”

“It will not be necessary. You’ll see.”

“Will you do it?” she persisted.

“There will be no need.”

“Will you?”

Roland sighed, the tiredness coming over him again, making him rub at the bridge of his nose. “Lady Kyla, I promise you right now, there will be no need for me to look after your horse. You will be able to entrust him to whomever you choose.”

“Then I choose you.”

“I don’t—”

“Forgive me, my lord,” she interrupted, a flare of disdain directed at him. “I had not realized the burden I was asking you to take. How thoughtless of me. Please forget I ever mentioned it.”

“Dammit, Kyla,” he swore, losing his temper at last. “You are so quick to offend and so slow to heed me! Listen to my words, my lady, I will not say this again! I promise you that you will not have to worry for your horse, because you will not be imprisoned, or beheaded, or whatever it is you fear will happen to you. Do you understand me now? You will be a free woman, as soon as the king has done with you. You are not the criminal.”

If she was taken aback by his sudden show of anger she kept it well hidden. She let the silence rest between them, looking off into the horizon of rooftops. The noises and smells of the city surrounded them now. Babies screaming, merchants hawking goods, the sound of cheerful drunkenness from a tavern they passed.

“I do not like the dark,” he heard her say once more, but under her breath, so he might have imagined it.

Chapter Six

T
he air in Henry’s private chamber was cold and thick and smelled of perfumed beeswax mingled with the spiced goose of his supper, the remains of which could be seen congealing in lumps on a golden plate by his chair.

Henry had not bothered to rise from his ornate seat by the fire when she entered, as he used to do. He had not taken her hand and held it a little too long, as he had before. And he did not smile at all as he surveyed her up and down, dressed still in the plain bliaut from the innkeeper’s wife.

She had done her best to clean it, but cold water and rubbing could not mend the rents in the fabric, nor the wrinkles lining it. It was clearly a coarse peasant’s gown, certainly nothing suitable in which to be presented to the King of England.

Yet it was all she had, and no one had sent her anything else. Kyla met Henry’s gaze without flinching. Beside her Roland was rising from his bow.

“My liege,” he said now, taking a step back to stand beside Kyla.

“Well, Strathmore, you have done it, We see.”

Scattered to the corners of the room were clusters of Henry’s most favored nobles, advisers, ministers, knights. They grouped together in jeweled shades, radiating suppressed excitement, an occasional glint of metal from the firelight glancing off a ring or a clasp, arms crossed, ears straining for every word that passed.