Authors: Roberta Gellis
“Mortal hurt,” she repeated, almost laughing again. “I did not hurt you at all. I am not so ignorant as not to know that.” Her light words were belied by her shaking voice, but the tension that was making Carys shiver now owed nothing to fear.
“You are ignorant enough to be afraid,” Telor murmured, nibbling at her neck and jawbone between words, opening her shift and kissing downward between her breasts. “Why?”
“No…no, not afraid. I…I did not wish…you…to take that…for a signal…to hurry.” Carys’s voice was blurred and she was having trouble finding words.
The sensations Telor was arousing in her body were not new. She had experienced them before in the clearing by the river, but this time they were stronger and she was better able to give herself to them. Her trust in Telor was greater, and despite her jest, Telor was beautiful naked, unlike Ulric and Morgan; undressed, Morgan was stringy and Ulric bulged, while Telor’s clear, pale skin was tight over smooth, rolling muscles.
Carys had never seen a man naked when aroused. Neither Morgan nor Ulric nor the other men she had coupled with in the past had bothered to remove their clothes. Telor’s naked body did make a difference. Even his engorged shaft was not ugly; it seemed natural, almost amusing, rising out of the brown bushy curls between his thighs. There had been something leering and nasty in seeing the pulsing head protruding from the dirty clothes of the other men. Everything about Telor was beautiful, inviting. Carys’s hands slid around his body, running up to his shoulders and down over his small, hard buttocks.
“You need not worry that I will hurry you.”
Telor’s voice, soft and soothing, drifted up from between her breasts. It did not break her mood, and she let herself relax completely when he lifted her as her hands rose from buttocks to shoulders a second time. He carried her to where two pallets had been pushed together, a blanket tucked down the outer sides of each to hold them firmly in place. As Telor put Carys down, a vague wonder about the arrangement slid through his mind, but it was not important enough to divert him from what he was doing. Her shift came off as he eased her from sitting to lying.
“Why should I hurry my pleasure?” he asked, kissing her shoulder while his left hand cupped her breast and his right felt for the tie of her braies. “We have all night. Come, now, will you not make your amends to poor Jehan de la Tête Rouge? A kind pat to show you do not scorn him?”
A small, lazy chuckle shook Carys. “Jehan de la Tête Rouge, indeed! A grand name for a vulgar little sneak, always nosing about for holes to stick his head in.”
But her hand moved over Telor’s shoulder to trace a slow course through the curling hair on his chest, over a smooth hip, inward to his hard, flat belly where hair grew again, thinly at first and then thicker and coarser. She flattened her hand to pass under the upward straining shaft, then curled her fingers around the base. Telor’s breathing deepened and became a little uneven, with short checks, but the hand that was easing her braies over her hips continued its slow work, fingers caressing her skin with each move, and his lips traveled no faster down her body. They paused for each nipple, first a light kiss and then a curling caress with a warm tongue, and finally a gentle, insistent sucking.
Memories of things Ermina had told her that Carys did not even know she retained rose up. Her hand slid upward along Telor’s shaft, which moved under her fingers with a pulsing life of its own, and she ran her thumb lightly around the moist head, spreading over and around the drops of liquid that oozed from the tiny mouth. Telor groaned softly. She could feel tiny tremors in his body, and the hand that was working at her braies shook as the garment slipped down over her thighs, baring her body.
Telor moved sideways, bringing his mouth down from her breasts, kissing and licking along her lower chest and down her belly, but Carys had no complaint, for his free hand took up his lips’ work on her nipples. And when he put his head between her thighs and kissed her nether mouth, sliding his tongue over the little bud between the lips, Carys cried out, lifting her hips upward. Telor hesitated, but her hand slid down his shaft, up and down, urgently, until he plunged his tongue deeper, pushing strongly on the braies so that they slipped off over her feet. She cried out softly again, and her legs opened.
“I have changed my mind,” she gasped. “Now you must hurry.”
But Telor did not hurry, being older and wiser in experience than in years, even though his own body was screaming agreement with Carys’s words. Hurry was for those women who knew what would bring them the ultimate pleasure and could show a man what they needed and wanted. Carys, like a virgin—worse than a virgin, Telor reminded himself, for she had been abused—still needed to learn.
Nonetheless, he could not refuse her invitation, so while continuing his caresses, he slid his body atop hers and placed the tip of the sword in the sheath. Telor was prepared to tease and titillate, to enter with infinite slowness, but Carys’s strong legs locked over his hips and drove the sword home. All he could do was allow her to set the rhythm of their heaving until, her eyes suddenly opening wide, her voice rose in ascending trills of astonished joy while her body convulsed in climax. Telor found his own release in seconds, thinking that Carys seemed to have learned her lesson very quickly. Telor was delighted, but he did not want her to think her pleasure a one-time thing and began to caress her again only minutes after she had sighed, “Oh, my! Oh, my goodness! You have worked a miracle.” Having succeeded a second time, he could still tell himself he was taking no chances she would forget and distribute several more lessons throughout the night.
Between whiles, Carys slept almost without moving, only the faint lift and fall of her chest as she breathed and the warm color of her skin showing her to be alive. Telor had felt a flicker of guilt about waking her each time he had himself roused, desiring her again, but the excuse was there and need to love her was stronger than guilt. So, despite the fact that it took some urgent caresses to stir her, the cheerful enthusiasm with which she cooperated once awake proved she was not angry about being disturbed.
The result of this lively activity was that Telor slept later than he had intended, sitting up with a start only after a beam of sunlight, creeping across the floor from a crack in the ill-fitting shutter, finally fell on his eyes. His first startled look around showed him Deri, scraping the mess from the candle holders where the candles had guttered out. Deri’s back was turned, and Telor did not know whether the dwarf had not noticed him sit up or whether he was being offered a few more moments of privacy.
But Telor did not dare accept Deri’s offer. He was afraid that if he looked at Carys even once, he would never find the courage to face losing her. It was said that no love but that of God existed in heaven, that all human craving was sloughed off. At this moment, Telor could not believe it; he was certain that the craving he felt for Carys would torture him throughout eternity if he died—and if he looked down from heaven and saw her with another man…A bolt of rage flared in Telor that was like physical pain. He bent his head over his raised knees, fighting the impulse to turn and kill his innocent lover—until his sense of humor came to save him. It was far more likely, he told himself, sliding carefully off the pallet and standing up, that a man with thoughts like his would be going to the other place. The wry smile that had curved his lips grew wryer; in hell you were assured of keeping every hurt and longing that could add to your torment, so perhaps his fears were not far wrong.
“Your clothes are there,” Deri said softly, pointing to a neat pile on a stool. “Do you want to wake Carys?”
“God, no!” Telor shook his head at Deri’s startled face and started to dress as he explained. “I would not have the strength to leave if I must say farewell to her. Will you wait and break your fast with her and—and try to tell her that it was no lack of love that drove me away from her? I am dreadfully late. I should have been at Lord William’s lodging at dawn to crave an audience with him.”
“I have broken my fast already,” Deri said, busying himself with the last candle holder, “but I will gladly explain to Carys that you are all about in the head, not in the heart—if you feel she is in any doubt about it.”
“God bless you, Deri. How I love you!” Telor exclaimed, and fled.
Telor had pulled on his clothes as fast as he could, in terror that Carys would wake, and he snatched up his lute and fled with half his laces undone. Then he ran to the main street and up it, only moderating his pace when he realized that people were looking at him with suspicion. A few streets away, he smelled beer and turned off to stop at an alehouse where he ordered bread, cheese, and ale, less because he was hungry than to have a place to use the privy—he had not even stopped for that—and to put himself in order. While the alewife brought his food and drink, Telor cleaned his teeth with a piece of harsh woolen cloth in the Welsh way, as Eurion had taught him. Not everyone was as compulsive about this practice, but a minstrel could not afford a stinking breath.
As he ate his bread and cheese, Telor tried to put his mind in order too, because his head was pulling one way and his heart another. From the moment he had heard Orin’s contemptuous dismissal of Eurion’s offer to sing and casual confession of having murdered the two gentle, harmless old men, Telor had determined to destroy Orin. The explosion of temper in which he had tried to kill the man had been utterly stupid. Was he being stupid again in planning to take a part in wresting Marston from him? Did he really need to risk his life, which had become immeasurably sweeter now that Carys was a part of it, to avenge his master?
There
was
another way. He could sing of Orin’s heinous act in every keep in the neighborhood of Marston. If Lord William would not attack Orin, or arrange for him to be attacked, Telor thought, that would be all he could do. There was a lifting of his heart now when he saw that road to escape, but shame barred the path.
Sir Richard’s fellow lords might be moved by his death for their own reasons, but actually there was nothing noble in it to sing about. Sir Richard had died because of his own incompetence. He was a good man and Telor was sorry for him, but the knight’s love of tales and parchments had gone too far. Marston could never have been defended against an army, but it should have been able to hold out against Orin’s troop long enough for Sir Richard to summon help. It was Eurion, not Sir Richard, who had made a noble sacrifice, but to sing of the minstrel’s death while Orin still held Marston would have little effect—except perhaps to point out to other lords how defenseless a minstrel really was.
No, Orin must be brought down first. Then Eurion, who had sacrificed his life in an attempt to save his master, could be the hero of a noble song of how the wrath of God fell on the killer. That song would be Eurion’s vengeance and his monument, for it would bring shame upon the name of his murderer and honor to the name of the minstrel for his selfless loyalty—one thing the lords honored was loyalty. Moreover, such a song must do all minstrels good by planting in the heads of the nobles the notion that minstrels were high-hearted, honorable men. And for that reason other minstrels would be glad to copy the song, so it would spread widely. Telor sighed and rose, calling to the alewife that he wished to pay. Orin’s death and that song had been his purpose from the moment he escaped Marston, and it was still the only worthy deed he could do in his master’s honor.
Telor did not expect to have any trouble finding Lord William, and he did not. A simple question to the alewife, which he would not have dared ask while he was dressed as a man-at-arms, provided him with the direction of the house in which Lord William was lodged. The fine garments also served as a pass through Lord William’s guardsmen when Telor asked to see someone who could carry his name and request for an audience to the lord. Telor did not fear Lord William’s clerk, who knew his master’s tastes and who might well remember Lord William’s invitation to him at Castle Combe—and the clerk did, indeed, send a page with the message at once—but even there the sober-colored good cloth tunic helped; the clerk was not only efficient but civil.
What Telor had not expected was to be summoned to Lord William at once. He had removed himself out of the way, for there were many other applicants for the clerk’s attention, and found a spot where he could lean on the wall while he thought out a way to lead Lord William in the direction he wished. Actually, Telor had got no further than an unpleasant qualm at the notion of trying to lead Lord William Gloucester anywhere when the page was plucking at his sleeve. He followed the pretty child up the stairs, uncertain of whether he should be wary or flattered, and bowed low when he was shown into the solar of the finest house in the town.
“Where have you come from, minstrel?” Lord William asked abruptly.
“From Marston, my lord, and I must—” Telor began.
He was cut off by an impatient gesture. “Too bad. I had hoped you were traveling about in this area, but if you have been all the time at Marston, you are no use to me now. I will leave word that you be admitted after dinner to sing, but—”
“I beg pardon for interrupting you, my lord,” Telor put in desperately, “but I have not been all this while at Marston, and I barely escaped from there with my life.”
“Escaped from there?” Lord William echoed.
“Sir Richard no longer holds Marston,” Telor said.
“I am sorry the old man is dead and that his heir has no love for minstrels—” Both face and voice were indifferent in the beginning, but Lord William hesitated suddenly, and a gleam that Telor prayed was acquisitive came into his eyes.
“The holder is no heir of Sir Richard’s,” Telor said before Lord William could ask about the old man’s library. He wanted to offer the lesser bait of Orin’s probable connection with the king so it would be in Lord William’s mind when he had to admit that Orin might have already destroyed the books and parchments. “He attacked Creklade first, was driven off, and fell back on the nearest manor. I do not know how the taking of Marston came about, but the gates were not broken and I saw no sign of fire, so I doubt there was much resistance. Still, the man murdered Sir Richard.”
Lord William frowned. “Even if Sir Richard was not capable of fighting well, to be killed in battle is not really murder.”
He stopped because Telor was shaking his head vehemently, and Telor said, “No, my lord, this Orin admitted he killed Sir Richard after the battle. I had stayed there only to ask if he knew where my old master Eurion had gone, and he laughed and said that Eurion had gone to hell, and that he, Orin, had sent him there for presumption.”
Telor blinked and bit his lip, struggling to steady his voice and hold back his tears. This was no time to stop, before he had told Lord William that Orin was from King Stephen’s army and about Orin’s future plans. Without that information, Lord William might have little further interest in the subject and wave him away—but for a few minutes he could not bring out another word despite his struggle. To his surprise, the obsidian eyes, which stared down at him from the raised chair in which Lord William sat, did not flick away from him to the next person, and the face showed no impatience.
Lord William waited until Telor had drawn a long breath and then asked, “What presumption?”
“Eurion begged that Sir Richard’s life be spared. He offered for that favor all he had to give—he offered to sing for his lord’s conqueror.” Telor took another deep breath, warning himself to keep his face still and show no sign of temper while he explained what that meant to a man like Eurion if Lord William asked sneeringly whether that was not what Eurion intended to do anyway.
Instead, Lord William nodded. “He was Welsh. They still consider it an honor there when a ‘bard’ offers to sing. Well, I am truly sorry Eurion mistook his man, but I do not see why you have come to me—unless…to avenge him?” He had been serious until that last phrase; when he said it, he looked faintly amused.
“No, indeed, my lord,” Telor assured him quickly. “I would not be so presumptuous as that, but I will not deny that I harbor an ill will toward this churl Orin—”
“Churl?” Lord William’s voice had a chill to it as he repeated the word. He did not take it kindly when a commoner dared to insult one he presumed to be of his class, injury or no injury.
“Churl, yes,” Telor repeated firmly, “for the man is as common as I, my lord, no more than a man-at-arms who came to lead a troop by his brutality. His men could not remember to call him Lord Orin, and they called him ‘captain,’ not ‘sir.’”
Lord William laughed and nodded, signing Telor to continue. Although Telor’s name had been vaguely familiar to him, he had sent for the minstrel so promptly because he thought he might have news to impart. When Telor mentioned Eurion, he had remembered their meeting at Castle Combe and also recalled that he had liked Telor for himself and for his skillful handling of de Dunstanville as well as for his remarkable artistry. Telor was clever; the minstrel wanted something, but he would doubtless offer something in exchange. William waited with interest to hear what that was.
“So when I heard you were here in Lechlade,” Telor went on, “I bethought me that perhaps I could do him an injury and you some good at the same time.”
Lord William restrained a smile at the accuracy of his assumptions and asked, “What good?”
“Orin comes from King Stephen’s army—of that I am certain. It is possible he is a renegade, but it is also possible that he was ordered to make what conquests he could in this area. I also know that he is training in arms the serfs he gathered up in the villages around Faringdon and that there is talk among his men of taking in mercenaries or troops freed when the siege ends. With them, he intends to try again to reduce Creklade.”
“So?” Lord William’s brows rose sardonically. “That is interesting, but I cannot see that it is to my good—quite the contrary, in fact.”
“That is true enough, my lord, and is why I thought you might like to pry him out of Marston before he can accomplish his purpose. He is short of men; he must have lost a third or even a half of his troop in his attempt to take Creklade. They had
two
gibbets raised to hang their prisoners when I passed through the town. And Marston is not a keep, only a manor. I am not sure what has happened to Sir Richard’s library, but I do not think Orin has yet destroyed it.”
Lord William raised a finger and Telor stopped speaking at once. “You are a very clever fellow to slip in a piece of bait like that. Not one man in a hundred would care. Is that why you came to me—because the bait was better for me?”
There was no threat in face or voice, but Telor felt cold. Still, he answered steadily, “For the sake of the library, yes, my lord.”
Lord William’s brows rose again. “Can you read?”
“No, my lord, I cannot read, but Sir Richard read to Eurion and to me, sometimes. Oh, such tales! Such tales of heroes and wonders and clever, talking beasts—” Telor’s eyes brightened with enthusiasm. “I never came away from Marston without meat with which to make great songs of high valor and small, funny ones to lighten the heart and teach. To think of those parchments being used to pad a gambeson or to chink a wall or fill a hole—I could not bear it. Who knows if any other copies exist? Some of those tales could be lost forever.”
The hard eyes looked away from Telor, and a frown creased Lord William’s brow. “Is the man so ignorant that he does not know the value of books?”
“I think so,” Telor replied promptly, indifferent to a truth he had no means of discovering. “Or else he might think them magical and burn them out of fear.”
“Surely he would give them to the Church if he feared magic,” Lord William remarked.
“I doubt Orin would think of that, and he might not dare go near a church,” Telor said.
“I would be sorry—” Lord William shrugged. “But one does not take a walled manor from an experienced captain with a hundred men.”
“I think you could have double that, or more, and at no cost to you,” Telor suggested eagerly, forestalling the wave of the hand that would dismiss him. “I think Creklade would send men to support an effort to be rid of Orin. And perhaps Sir Richard’s neighbors would help too—the manor and outlying farms would need to be overseen until an heir is found, which might take time. Moreover, there is a chance that I will be able to arrange that the gate open easily for you. Before I was a minstrel, my trade was woodcarving. The bars of the gate are of wood.”
There was a long silence. When Lord William did not answer him at first, Telor thought the cause lost, but as the fathomless black eyes stared past him, hope and fear rose together in him. His urge for vengeance was strong, but what he had promised might cost his life—and his urge to live was strong also. At last Lord William looked at him again.
“I must think on this matter—and not because of the bribe you offered me. Do not think me so easily brought to dance like a puppet on a string.”
Telor made a wordless protest and shook his head, but Lord William’s expressive brow said he did not believe the protest. Nonetheless, he offered Telor a wintry smile to cool his anxiety.
“Faringdon will fall, and thus it would be an advantage to my father to gain a firm hold on the towns and keeps that surround it, so this news has more interest for me than you realized when you brought it. Nonetheless, I must ask a question or two here and there. It will take a few days to get my answers. Come back each day early. You will lose nothing by waiting here. You may sing for me at dinner each day. When I have my information, I will call in your promise to me or let you go.”
“I will sing most gladly, my lord.” Telor bowed. “But I was able to save only one small lute. The rest of my instruments are still in Marston—or burned.”
Lord William smiled. “Another score to settle for you? Never mind. The one lute will do for the kind of company likely to dine with me here.”
Since the dinner hour was nearly upon them, Telor bowed again and went down the stairs. He told the clerk he had been requested to sing at dinner and asked if he could go through the hall and out into the back garden to find a quiet place to practice.
“I am almost tempted to bid you bide here so we could hear you,” the clerk said with a smile, “but I know that would be the end of all business. Yes, make yourself comfortable wherever you like. I will send a page for you when Lord William wants you and have a place set for you at one of the tables.”