by Lynn Kurland
’Twas no wonder his family skirmished so often.
“Don’t you have a crusade to attend to?” she asked shortly.
He studied her closely, wriggling his jaw a time or two as if he considered whether or not he should let it loose and speak.
“Well?” she demanded.
And then he laughed at her.
She growled and gave him a mighty shove. But apparently she was not up to the Artane standards of battle, for she found herself pulled right along with him. Her basket of thread went flying, and she found herself sprawled atop him, having left her dignity and her good sense behind her.
“Let me up, you fool,” she said.
“Lianna of Grasleigh,” he said, shaking his head in wonder, “you surprise me with your foul tongue. I suppose I should have known your true nature would show itself soon enough.”
“If you seek to compliment me,” she said, trying to pull away, “you’re failing miserably!”
“Then what if I ask you to wed with me?”
It was as if someone had dumped a bucket of winter water on her, so startled was she. She looked down into his face so close to hers and could find nothing to say. He sat up, pushing her back to her knees. He got to his knees as well and took both her hands in his.
“Is the thought so horrifying?” he asked softly.
“Saints, nay,” she breathed.
The smile he gave her was so brilliant, she could scarce look at him. She found that she was smiling in return, a smile so wide she felt that her face might split in two. And when he reached up and trailed his fingers over her cheek, she only spared a brief thought for the ruin of her face.
“You are beautiful,” he said.
“Nay, no longer.”
“Scars mark the passage of battle,” he said simply. “I don’t see them. I see a woman I love, a woman I want to mother my children, a woman I want by my side for the rest of my days. What are a few scars in comparison?”
“You, my lord, have a remarkable vision.”
“And you, my lady—”
“Oh, by all the bloody saints, kiss her, won’t you? I can scarce stomach any more of this drivel.”
Lianna blinked and looked to her right. Who should be standing there but Kendrick himself, dressed in normal garb. That was odd enough to merit attention.
“Where are your skirts?” she asked.
Jason laughed heartily, and Kendrick took a step closer, his fists at the ready.
“Nay,” Lianna said, holding out her hand, “do not ruin his mouth until he’s sealed his offer.”
“Did you say him aye?” Kendrick asked.
Lianna looked at Jason. “Mine is not the will you must bend to yours.”
“Best kiss her anyway, Jason,” Kendrick advised. “It may be all you get.”
“Thank you for that,” Jason grumbled.
Lianna would have added her thoughts as well, but she found herself suddenly quite occupied, and overcome, by the miraculous event of Jason of Artane taking her face in his hands and kissing her.
And kissing her.
And kissing her yet again.
Indeed, though she was excruciatingly aware of Kendrick standing there making noises of impatience, Jason seemed to take no note of anything but her mouth. And her hair, which he was fingering into complete disarray.
And when he let her breathe again, she wondered if she would ever manage a normal breath again.
“By the saints,” Kendrick said in disgust, “that was overdoing it, don’t you think?”
“You needn’t watch longer,” Jason said pointedly.
“Ha,” Kendrick replied. “Think you I would leave you alone with her now? The poor girl must have a chaperon, and who better than me to fill those shoes? Take your groping hands off the lass, there’s a good lad. Come, my lady, and let me see you safely back to the keep. Your love can press his suit with the king whilst your virtue is still intact.”
“Her virtue is safe with me!” Jason bellowed.
“Hrumph. I’ll judge that for myself. And how is it you intend to convince the king to give this prize to a bumbling clod such as yourself?”
“You were supposed to be giving it helpful thought,” Jason snapped, helping Lianna to her feet. He gathered up her sewing and his lute, then nodded pointedly at her chair. “Carry that,” he said to his brother.
Kendrick looked ready to protest but seemed to think better of it. Lianna soon found herself walking back to the castle flanked by two Artane brothers, who were fighting over her head as to how best win her hand. Jason was holding one of her hands, Kendrick the other. She wondered, as she noted the looks the guardsmen were giving them on their way through the barbican gates, if her reputation would be so ruined that it wouldn’t matter who was offering to wed her.
Or perhaps when Maud and her ladies found out whose hands she was holding, she would be too dead for that to matter.
She was left in Kendrick’s care while Jason went to stow her stitchery with his gear upstairs. Kendrick found her a place at the table, then sat next to her.
“He agrees with you?” he asked seriously.
The look of earnestness on his face was so surprising she smiled.
“Are you so concerned?”
“Of course. You deserve a happy home, Lianna.”
“And you don’t think he’ll give it to me?”
He did smile then, a rueful smile. “Aye, I suppose he will. ”Tis difficult for me to think of my younger brother being able to do the like, but I suppose he’s man enough now.”
“But you’ll forever look on him as a lowly squire fetching you this and that when you came to visit his master, aye?”
“He told you, then.”
“The tortures were described in great detail,” she agreed. “And I understand. I could never look at my younger brother that I did not see him as a lad of six or seven, hanging on my mother’s skirts.”
Kendrick nodded, then looked at her solemnly. “This will be difficult. Whether you’ll admit it or not, your lands are vast. The king would prefer to make a more advantageous match for you, no doubt.”
“Think you he can be convinced?”
“I’ve been studying his weaknesses for months. We’ll strike at those and see if he cannot be persuaded—”
“By the saints, what filth have we here?”
Lianna blinked in surprise at the harsh voice that cut through their peaceful conversation like a dull knife ripping through linen. She looked at the man who was standing before their table, staring at Kendrick with nothing less than pure hatred.
“Sedgwick,” Kendrick said flatly.
“I would call you Artane, but that is your brother’s right, isn’t it?” the other man said. “Have you any title? Ah, how foolish of me to have forgotten. The second son, the one with nothing to call his own but his father’s charity.”
Kendrick snorted. “William Artane—your memory fails you. My father, not my brother, is your father’s liege-lord. He will be your liege-lord when drink and whoring send your sire to his early death. And then you will be master of Sedgwick, and all the luxury that entails, won’t you?”
“At least I’ll have a keep,” William snarled.
“By my father’s charity as well, so that makes you no better than I, does it?” Kendrick returned. “Cousin.”
William turned his furious gaze on Lianna. “And who is this? Your latest whore?”
Kendrick rose.
“You’re losing your skill, cousin,” William said with an unpleasant laugh. “Is this all you could woo to your bed? This pock-marked, uninteresting by-blow of a kitchen lad?”
Lianna watched, open-mouthed, as Kendrick vaulted over the table and planted his fist in William of Sedgwick’s mouth. She watched them push, shove, and hurl insults for several moments before they both drew swords and began hacking at each other.
“By the saints,” Jason said, skidding to a halt at her side, “what madness is this?”
“Sedgwi
ck,” she said. “He insulted Kendrick.”
“What else did he say?” Jason demanded. “Kendrick wouldn’t be using his blade for a mere insult to himself.” He looked down at her. “Did he say aught to you?”
She winced. “Naught that I haven’t heard before.”
“Damn,” he breathed. “I should have been here.”
The herald suddenly bellowed the king’s arrival.
“Could matters worsen?” Jason said tightly.
Lianna watched the events before her unfold with a dizzying sense of unreality. Jason sat next to her, clutching her hand under the table, as the king made his way to his place, sat, and demanded a recounting of the dispute.
She listened with growing distress as Kendrick bargained for a chance to see to William on the field. She was certain the king wouldn’t allow it. But apparently His Majesty was either overtired or he thought it would make a public example to let the two fight it out, for he agreed.
And then the worst came.
“And to the winner?” the king asked, picking at his tabard. “What prize shall there be?”
“Besides life?” Kendrick asked.
The king looked at him dispassionately. “You fought over a woman. You must value more than just life for that.”
“The woman, then,” William said. “I’m in need of a wife.”
Kendrick opened his mouth to speak, but the king was swifter and his edict was law.
“Lianna of Grasleigh to the one of you who can show us you’re canny enough to win your own life. Then perhaps you’ll be worthy of her wealth.”
Lianna wished with all her heart that she had a constitution that was prone to fainting, for she would have done it at that moment gladly and not found herself hale and sound and perfectly capable of understanding what had just transpired.
Two men were fighting each other for their lives.
And for her.
While the man she wanted sat next to her, cursing fluently and clutching her hand with enough strength to bruise it.
Eight
Jason stood on the edge of the field next to the woman of his heart and cursed his brother’s damned chivalry. And he cursed his own. Had he not been fool enough to trouble himself seeing to Lianna’s bloody gear, he would have been in the great hall, ready and willing to avenge his lady for the insults paid to her by that great buffoon, his cousin, William of Sedgwick. Instead, where did he find himself?
Standing on the side of the field, wringing his hands like a woman.
Lianna fared no better, though she seemed to be able to keep herself from wringing her hands. They were clasped together before her so tightly that her knuckles were white. They matched perfectly the pallor of her face.
Jason moved and his mail squeaked. He really should find himself some kind of squire to see to that. Pity he never could find a lord willing to sacrifice his son to Jason’s care. Perhaps in time Jason would find himself lord of an obscure keep and some poor lad would come to him then.
Though none of that would matter if he couldn’t manage to discover a way to keep Lianna from either Kendrick or William’s greedy hands—and he wasn’t sure at the moment who would have been worse!
He fingered the hilt of his sword and gave himself over to furious thought. If William prevailed, he could demand a challenge to avenge his then-dead brother, and surely he would emerge the victor. He could worry about his grief over losing Kendrick later. He would have Lianna and repay Sedgwick for Kendrick’s death with the same stroke.
Now, if Kendrick won, things would become stickier. How was it one went about challenging one’s own brother for the right to a woman? And to the death? His father would surely find that less than pleasing. Then again, he supposed it had been done in the past. Mayhap it could be done in the future.
He heard the clash of metal on metal and realized that Kendrick and William were already at it. Swords, apparently, which gave Kendrick the advantage. Actually, it wouldn’t have mattered what the weapon or the battlefield. Jason knew his brother’s skill—and he knew what bumbling idiots Sedgwick produced. William would lose, and as his lifeblood drained from him, he would rage about the injustice of having grown up in a keep full of rats, with poor food, and lack of handsome women to bed. That his father was a fool, as his father had been before him, would never enter into the argument. The fault would have lain at Artane that no one there had sent help. Never mind that help would have been summarily rejected.
Jason watched Kendrick fight and found it less exciting than nauseating. His brother was skilled, so skilled that the sight of it should have been enough to give Jason pause. Kendrick had the advantage of five years more training, five years more warring, five years more life on the earth.
But he didn’t have the advantage of a desperate desire to wed with Lianna of Grasleigh.
He looked at the field to find Kendrick had gone down on one knee.
But his brother rolled, came up, and cast himself back into the fray without a grunt or a curse. Jason had to admit that it was fascinating to watch the oaf fight, for he did it with the beauty of a dance.
A deadly dance, to be sure.
Time wore on. Jason wished desperately for a very long stick to shove down his back and relieve him of the itch that seemed to have lodged a hand’s span below his ribs. The sun beat down on him, leaving him feeling rather like a meat pie, roasting in his mail.
And still the battle continued.
Jason yawned widely, wishing Kendrick would get on with the business at hand. It might have provided Kendrick with amusing entertainment for the morning, but Jason had things to see to.
William, in the end, went down. Kendrick stood over him with his sword at the other man’s throat.
“Yield,” Kendrick commanded.
“Never,” William spat.
“Then die—”
“Nay! I yield, I yield!”
“Coward,” muttered Jason. “Like his father before him.”
Kendrick pulled his sword away, turned, and went to kneel before the king. Jason closed his eyes and prayed.
Give me a miracle. Just one. I’ll never cast another spell.
“Kendrick!”
Jason scarce managed to stop Lianna before she bolted onto the field to save his fool brother, who was near to having himself slain by William of Sedgwick, who had come upon him suddenly from behind. Kendrick rolled, and William’s stroke merely grazed him instead of impaling him.
The battle began again, but it was short-lived. With a negligent flick of his wrist, Kendrick sent William’s sword flying from his hand. William found himself immediately surrounded and overcome by the king’s men who swarmed onto the field.
Jason spared little time wondering what would happen to his cousin. He could have passed the rest of eternity rotting in hell and Jason wouldn’t have cared. What concerned him was how he was going to keep his brother from taking Lianna to wife. Could a challenge possibly go wrong?
Kendrick had scarce opened his mouth to flatter Henry before Jason had stepped out into the field, quickly before Lianna could stop him, and strode across to kneel before the king.
“Your Majesty,” Jason said, bowing his head, “I challenge Kendrick of Artane for his right to the lady of Grasleigh.”
Where there had been low murmuring before, there was a deafening silence now.
Or perhaps that deafness came from the blood thundering in his ears.
Or the waves of Henry’s displeasure that washed over him in a thunderous rush.
Jason couldn’t tell and didn’t dare lift his head to look.
“You, Lord Jason, are not who we would choose for our ward,” the king announced in less-than-dulcet tones.
Jason kept his head down. “Artane blood runs through my veins as well, Majesty. I can be an asset and an ally to the crown in the north.”
For which his father would blister his ears and likely his arse as well if he could manage it, but there were times a man said what he had to in order t
o have what he desired. He would be the king’s man until it was in his best interest not to be. And with the growing discontent surrounding Henry’s extravagant ways, that day could come sooner than Henry might wish.
But for now, he would give as much fealty as his honor would allow and fight his brother for the prize.
Assuming Henry would give him the chance.
It seemed to take the king an inordinate amount of time to come to a decision. Or perhaps he was trying to decide how best to kill Jason so no dark forces were loosed. Jason wasn’t sure what the king was thinking, and he didn’t dare look up to examine the king’s expression.
A sudden and quite ferocious trumpet blast fair gave him a permanently crooked neck from jerking his head up so quickly. Apparently, leave had been granted for him to try to kill his brother.
“To the death, my liege?” Kendrick asked smoothly.
“It seems a pity,” the king said thoughtfully, “to lose one of such a fine family.”
Jason began to give thanks.
“But all in the name of chivalry, we suppose. Do what you must, my lords.”
“Perfect,” Jason muttered under his breath as he rose to his feet and looked at his brother.
“I’m bleeding,” Kendrick said with what for him was a pout. “Be gentle.”
“I’ll cut off your head as tenderly as I know how,” Jason replied.
“I daresay ’twould grieve our king to lose us both. I’ll see that he loses the lesser of us, so his grief is not so heavy.”
“I’ll play your favorite ballad at your wake,” Jason shot back. “And practice much beforehand, that your blighted spirit might not need flinch as you listen.”
Kendrick lifted his sword. “A final chance to cry peace and save your wretched life.”
“And watch you wed my beloved? I’d rather die.”
“Death it is,” Kendrick agreed with a regretful sigh.
“Yours.”
“Nay, yours I’m afraid.”
“You could only hope.”
“Shall I use the right or the left?” Kendrick asked, studying his hands. “I believe I used to fight you using the left and yet I was still able to best you thoroughly.”