The Rose of Blacksword (59 page)

“Mayhap I should trim this hair as well as your throat, Saxon whelp,” he muttered as he tossed the helmet aside. “You can wear the Norman mode this season.”

“Kill me and be done with witless prattle!” Blue eyes glared at him, and the slender body beneath Luc’s knees trembled violently.

“Oh, no,” Luc snarled when the boy twisted his head to one side, and he reached out to tangle a fist in the long mane, jerking hard. “You will face the fate you have brought upon you this day.”

“May the demons take you back where you belong.”

Buckling beneath him, the youth struggled to dislodge him. Luc laughed contemptuously. “Nay, ’tis not likely that a puny creature such as yourself can unseat me. You’re as scrawny as a starved cockerel, and not near as strong. If not for your armor, you’d be no bigger than a suckling.”

Luc surged to his feet and pulled the defeated youth up with him, one hand still wrapped in the thick mass of hair. Frowning, his eyes narrowed at the slight weight of him. He turned the boy to study his comely face, the lush mouth and long-lashed eyes that refused to meet his.…An awful suspicion ignited, and he grasped the softly rounded chin in his other fist, holding hard.

A flush stained the high cheekbones as Luc tilted his captive’s face toward the gray light that sifted through the heavy oak limbs shading the courtyard. Deliberately, Luc shifted his hand lower, over throat and shoulder, the backs of his fingers skimming over the round brass plates of ancient chest armor to the webbing between. Wide eyes held his in a steady gaze, not blinking even when Luc slid his hand beneath the armor to touch the linen sherte beneath. His exploring hand found what he suspected, and he swore softly.

Luc stared at his adversary, his fury fading into amazement. It was not possible … but the evidence filled his palm, soft and tempting, and unmistakably rounded. He slowly drew his hand from beneath the armor, his voice rough:

“You are no stripling lad.”

The girl’s eyebrow arched in feigned surprise, and her full mouth curled into a scornful smile. “Your intellect is superior to your prowess on the field of battle, Sir Knight. Bested by a mere maid—how will your reputation fare in William’s court now?”

“Be ’ware of whose temper you prod—and keep in mind that ’tis my dagger at your throat this time. Your battle is lost.”

“I could not forget. Not with my father’s men dead all around me.” Bitterness tinged her husky voice as her gaze skimmed the scene around them, and her blue eyes darkened with pain. For the first time, he noticed that blood dripped from a shallow cut on her forehead.

Luc sheathed his dagger and picked up his sword, holding it out with lowered tip to indicate his inclination to mercy. “You are my hostage. Take me to your lord, so that I may accept his surrender.”

Soft laughter met his demand. “That is impossible.”

“For your sake, it had best not be.” Luc’s words were clipped. “I deal harshly with those who refuse my commands.”

“You and William are cut from the same cloth, then.”

“Do not whine to me of ill treatment. Complain instead to your father, who took William’s oath only to break it. ’Twould have been better had he not taken it at all than to dishonor his sworn word. At least then he could have kept the king’s respect.”

“The bastard duke of Normandy deserves no respect. Nay, and Lord Balfour never broke a sworn bond in his life, so do not speak ill of him now.”

Impatient, Luc shook his head. “You bandy words, when ’tis Balfour who should offer his own defense. I would meet the man responsible for the deaths of good men, and I would meet him now. Take me to Lord Balfour immediately, or it will go harshly with you and all in your hall.”

After a moment of taut silence, the girl shrugged her shoulders. A gust of wind teased the golden hair that rippled down her back and over her arms. A faint smile played on her lips. If not for her obvious female attributes he might still think her a young lad, for the timbre of her voice was low and rich. “Since you insist, brave knight, I will take you to him.”

She turned, head held high, to indicate the narrow path leading away from the vault. She possessed the confident grace of a young doe, a wild creature standing in the midst of the tangled trees and stones. When Luc did not move immediately, she glanced back over her shoulder at him. Her voice purred, sultry and provocative.

“Poor Norman knight—do you fear treachery? If I thought ’twould serve me, I would lead you into a trap, but I know you are right and the battle is lost.”

“It is not fear of treachery that delays me, but kindness that bids me warn you not to play me false, or you will soon regret it.”

Her response was a throaty laugh and eloquent shrug of one shoulder as she said, “ ’tis traitors who fear treachery most, I think.”

“My lord,” Remy spoke up quietly, “do not go alone. I do not trust her.”

“Nor I, Remy. Search the grounds, then join me. I do not think there are enough Saxons left to spring a trap, but neither do I put faith in them blindly.”

Luc followed the maid down a narrow, weed-choked path to a small stone cairn tucked beneath a bower of young trees. There she swung around to face him with an unreadable expression on her lovely features. He came to an abrupt halt, glancing about the deserted grove. Fallen leaves cluttered the ground and rustled dryly beneath their feet, and the musty smell of death permeated the air around them.

“What is this,
demoiselle
? A ruse to delay me while your father escapes?”

Her soft laugh sounded more bitter than amused. “Nay, he has already escaped invading Normans. But you are welcome to follow him. Indeed, I pray that you do.” When he scowled and took a step toward her, she swept out an arm to indicate the pile of stones. “Lord Balfour awaits your company, Sir Knight.”

Luc stared at her mocking face, the slight smile twisting her lips, and suddenly he understood.

“How long has the lord been dead?”

“Three moons have waxed and waned since Balfour joined his fathers.”

“Then you will tell me who is lord in his place. I want the man responsible for the death of Sir Simon, and this rebellion against William.”

Draping her slender body against the stone cairn, the girl’s gaze did not leave his face. “That person is before you, Norman. Do your worst.”

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Read on for an excerpt from Iris Johansen’s
This Fierce Splendor

Prologue

Kantalan, Mexico  
Summer,
A.D
. 1517

The Sun Child was trembling.

The motion beneath Sayan’s sandals was a mere quivering that vanished almost as it began. She would never have noticed it if her senses had not been tuned to exquisite sensitivity by the knowledge of what was to come.

Her hand tightened on the stem of the silver goblet. She was also trembling. She hadn’t expected to be this afraid. She had thought once she had accepted her fate, she would have the courage to meet it with dignity. After all, it would not be a cruel death. She would drift peacefully to sleep, never to awaken. At least, never to awaken on this plane. There had been something in the flames, a promise.…

She lifted the goblet to her lips and quickly swallowed a large draft of potent maize wine. It was strong and smooth as it slid down her throat, leaving warmth in its wake. She was not quite so cold now, and she would be able to meet her fate as a
clairana
should. She moved slowly to the polished brass mirror affixed to the far wall. The mellow golden circle reflected the scarlet blossoms in the white jade vase on the low table in front of the mirror and beyond it her own image. She had dressed very carefully tonight to forestall this very terror and give her confidence. She wore her favorite ceremonial robe, the cloak of sunrise. A sunburst of fine silk pleats fell from the shoulders of the garment in a cascade of gold and ivory and rose and was fastened at her throat with a large yellow-diamond clasp whose facets sparkled in the soft candlelight. The ivory silk gown beneath it was a mere slip of material, and it revealed the full thrust of her breasts and the clean line of her thighs. At least she looked like a
clairana
. She mustn’t have these doubts. When the time came she would have the courage she needed. Probably the isolation of the last few days had been more painful than her death would be.

The priests had been very wise in their punishment. They had snatched none of the riches that were the accoutrements of her position from her. They had taken away only their belief in her and the companionship to which a
clairana
was accustomed. She decided it was the terrible loneliness making her so cowardly. Everyone was alone within their soul, but a touch, a word, would have been a comfort as she released her essence to the—

“You look splendid.”

Sayan whirled to face the man standing in the doorway. “No!” she whispered. “I told you to leave. I begged you to leave and you promised you would. Why are you still here, Dalkar?”

“I lied.” He strolled into the chamber, moving with grace and athletic coordination. His sandals made no sound on the marble tiles. His white teeth were gleaming in his bronze face as he smiled at her, and she felt an eddy of warmth cascade through her that was more heady than the strong wine she had just drunk.

He was the one who was splendid. Strong and superbly muscled like a giant jaguar, his dark eyes shining with humor and vitality. He was naked to the waist as was his custom. The single swath of a dark brown leather
chanton
girdled his slim hips, leaving his muscular thighs as naked as his hair-roughened chest. The cords of the sandals that crisscrossed his ankles and lower calves were also leather. A beaten silver necklace imbedded with turquoise encircled his strong brown throat; the center medallion, inscribed with the cross of the four-rivers, hung directly between his breasts. His features were not at all handsome. His nose was too short and blunt and his cheekbones too broad. It made no difference. He drew women to him like the great lodestone in the temple of Ra. He was all male virility and joyous laughter. Sayan had heard the whispers that followed him before he had even approached her, and knew he was not a man she could trust to keep his distance. That, too, had made no difference. His body had seduced her with its strength and heated masculinity, but it was his laughter that had enchanted and won her.

He was laughing now. “You should have known better than to trust me Any man who would dishonor a
clairana
is capable of any crime.” He picked up the graceful silver pitcher from the black marble table and poured a small amount of wine into a goblet. “I knew you wouldn’t stop arguing unless I told you I’d leave Kantalan.” He lifted the goblet in a toast. “And I had no intention of leaving either you or Kantalan. If you stay, I stay.”

“I don’t want you to die. I want you to live. It
will
happen, Dalkar, believe me.” Her eyes glittered in the candlelight with the tears she refused to let fall. “Please believe me. I saw it in the sacred flames. It was a true vision. Ra didn’t take away my powers when I committed the blasphemy.”

He stiffened and his smile faded. “It was no blasphemy. It was beautiful. Just because the priests have declared us outcasts doesn’t mean what we did was wrong. If you hadn’t been the
clairana
, I would have been allowed to take you as my lady. We were right to ignore those pompous fools and their outdated superstition and seize the joy that was our right to know.”

She shook her head. “No, we were wrong. If I hadn’t betrayed my vow, our people would have believed in me and fled Kantalan. They would not be climbing the Sun Child tonight to give sacrifice.”

He frowned. “You have regrets?”

Her eyes widened. “Of course I have regrets. The greatest civilization that has existed since we left the homeplace is going to be destroyed.” Her despairing gaze searched his face. “You don’t believe me either, do you?”

He shrugged. “I’m a soldier, not a mystic. I believe what I can see, what I can touch, and what we are together.” He smiled. “Is that enough for you, Sayan?”

“No, you
must
believe.” Her voice was vibrant with urgency. “You must leave Kantalan, Dalkar.”

“Shh.” His fingers touched her lips gently. “It doesn’t matter what I believe or don’t believe. If I thought Ra was going to rain fire down and destroy the world in the next instant, I would still be here.”

“There will be no fire.” She closed her eyes. “Not this time. Not until the four who come after walk the streets of Kantalan.”

Dalkar felt a cold chill in the hollow of his spine. He had always been a confirmed skeptic, but her utter certainty shook him. Then he moved his shoulders as if shrugging off a burden. He had always lived for the moment, and Sayan had given him the most exquisite moments in his life. He had learned these last few days when he had forced himself to stay away from her that a future without her would be meaningless. It was not a future he could comtemplate. If Sayan’s prophecy proved true, then he could have no more beloved a companion with to whom spend that final moment. Yet it was against his nature to accept even the possibility of death meekly. “I could take you away. We could make a life for ourselves somewhere else.”