by Lara Adrian
At last she could take the standing no longer, and did indeed need to relieve herself. She went to Alaric with her request. He looked dubious.
“If you try to run--”
“I won't. You have my word. Besides, I'm far too weary to even consider the notion.”
He frowned. “Very well, but I must insist that you remain close by.”
“You may stand watch yourself or send Agnes after me.” She wiped her forearm across her sweaty brow. “'Tis a minor humiliation amid the rest, I assure you.”
Alaric exhaled a heavy sigh. “I'll not beleaguer your delicate sensibilities any further, milady. As you have given me your word, I warrant a few moments of privacy could do no harm.”
“Thank you,” she whispered and stepped through the brush.
Raina had to admire Alaric's chivalry and wondered how he managed to acquire it serving a lord as brash and bullying as his. Rutledge, the blackguard, likely would have taken great pleasure in degrading her further. She thanked the saints that he had sent his squire in his place this morn.
Finding a likely enough spot a few yards into the thicket, Raina lifted her skirts and hunkered down. She had no idea how tired her legs were until she tried to squat and nearly toppled over. She broke her fall, but in so doing, thrust her hands into a patch of nettles. An instant, itchy rash bloomed on her palm and wrists, made all the worse by the raw condition of her skin.
She scratched at the fine, nearly invisible hairs now lodged in her skin and swore an oath under her breath as the white bumps began to rise. Nettles! Next to impossible to remove, they were even harder to endure. She wiped her hands in her skirts, moaning when the friction only worsened the itch.
Alaric's voice called out to her. “Milady? Are you ill?”
She couldn't answer. Her hands throbbed and she just wanted to be home, away from this place. Damn Rutledge. If not for his edict, her hands would not be raw, and she would not be picking nettles from them. He was fast becoming the very bane of her existence. Would that she could give him a taste of his own medicine. If only she could find a means of causing him even the smallest measure of the discomfort he was causing her. What joy she would find in his pain, what sweet satisfaction!
“Milady, if you do not answer, you leave me no choice but to seek you out!” Alaric's panicky voice was soon joined by Agnes's grim prediction.
“I shudder to think what Lord Gunnar'll do if ye've let 'er get away, lad.”
Raina suddenly stopped scratching her palm and looked over her shoulder to the generous patch of nettles where the germ of an idea took root.
Discomfort he prescribed, then discomfort would he get.
An untamed smile grew wide on her face, and she nearly burst out laughing with satisfaction as she quickly collected a good number of the leafy stems and concealed them within the folds of her skirts.
By the time Alaric and Agnes had crashed through the bracken, Raina was standing up and brushing herself off, her expression serenely innocent.
“I said I'd be along in a moment,” she declared as she sailed past them.
Chapter 10
“I think I am in love.”
The solemn statement hung in the air for an overlong moment before the knights gathered around the trestle table burst into laughter. Alaric looked up from his cup of ale and frowned.
“Again so soon, lad? Or dare we think you should love the same girl for more than one week at a time?”
“'Tis not like that,” he said, shaking his head. “This time I am certain.” The men laughed harder; someone beside him patted his head as if he were a pup.
“Poor Alaric, his lance goes stiff an' he credits he's in love! Pray, someone teach him the difference!”
“Odette could teach him,” one man supplied. “She's schooled her share of lovelorn virgins.”
“Laugh all you like, you grizzled sots,” Alaric charged. “You'll be choking on your gibes when you see that I am telling the truth.”
Burc sliced his hand through the air to calm the laughter and lowered his voice to mocking seriousness. “Tell us, lad, who is the misfortunate wench this week?”
“She's no wench, you great bag of ill wind. She's a lady. The most beautiful lady I've ever laid eyes on.”
Burc stroked his jaw. “Ah, and where is it ye spied this...woman of such legendary beauty?”
Alaric stared into his mug for a long moment, then casting a furtive glance over each shoulder, he leaned in and whispered, “She is here, in this keep...the lady, Raina.”
Burc's face split into a wide grin and he let out a guffaw. “Saints' blue bloody balls!” he barked. “That wench is no lady. Why, 'twouldn't surprise me in the least if she were not already Rutledge's whore--”
Alaric drew his dagger and lunged across the table at the big knight. “Withdraw that comment, Burc, or feel my blade rent your gullet where you sit.”
The other men stilled but Burc remained unaffected, even chuckling, despite Alaric's grave tone. “Bloody Christ! Methinks ye are in love, lad. Only a stricken fool would be so willing to toss his life away in the name of a wench's virtue.”
Alaric moved closer. “Withdraw the comment, you fat ugly bastard!”
* * *
Gunnar entered the hall and immediately spied his squire atop the table, his blade at Burc's throat.
“What the devil is going on here?” he bellowed.
“Seems your squire fancies himself in love with your hostage,” Burc supplied, casually sweeping Alaric's blade away from him with the back of his hand. “I was advising him of the folly of the notion.”
“Indeed. Alaric, a word if you please.” As Gunnar crossed the hall to the dais, Alaric resheathed his dagger and made to follow. Gunnar pulled aside an x-chair and motioned for Alaric to sit beside him on the dais. “I would hear your explanation of the foolery I just witnessed.”
“'Twas much as Burc said, milord. He made a comment about a lady that I could not allow to go unchallenged.”
“My prisoner.”
“Aye, milord, Lady Raina. He said she was a--that she was your--” He flushed, his gaze dropping to his chewed-off fingernails. “I could not abide his maligning her.”
“And that was how you chose to handle it?”
Alaric looked up at him in confusion. “Milord, have you yourself not said that no man has the right to disparage a lady's honor? That 'tis a man's duty to protect a lady and her reputation?”
Gunnar exhaled and ran a hand over his face in frustration. He should have known his words would come back on his squire's lips to haunt him. He looked into Alaric's expectant gaze. “I...might have said something to that effect at one time or another.”
“Aye, that you have, milord. You may think I don't listen to your advice, but I do.” Alaric sat up straighter on the stool and brought his fist to his chest. “I take it to heart.”
“So it would seem,” Gunnar mused.
“Besides,” Alaric continued, “Burc is a pox on the arse of mankind. 'Twould have been a favor to us all if I had split him wide open.”
“You would have likely gotten yourself killed, lad. Burc is a pox, I'll grant you that, but he is also one of my most skilled men and I can ill afford to lose him now. He was likely needling you, merely trying to goad you into tangling with him.”
“Would you not have done the same thing as I, milord?”
Gunnar chuckled despite himself, slapping Alaric heartily on the shoulder. “Aye, I warrant I would have at that. But tell me, what interest have you in my prisoner?”
His squire's cheeks flushed crimson. “I...” He straightened his shoulders, running a finger around the collar of his tunic. “I...I fear I love her, milord.” He met Gunnar's gaze, the youth's expression very grave.
Gunnar quelled the urge to laugh in light of Alaric's solemnity. Truth be known, he understood firsthand how easily a man could desire a woman of Raina's beauty and wit, but here was a lad who threw his heart to any comely maid who happened to glance
his way.
Normally, Gunnar would look upon it as naught more than a passing fancy, but the boy's developing feelings--and a possible alliance--with his prisoner was another matter entirely. He could have none of it.
“Alaric, as my squire and as one day a knight, it is your responsibility to put duty before all else. That woman abovestairs is your lord's prisoner and as such, your feelings for her must not exceed my own. Do you understand?”
“Aye, milord.”
“Good. As long as she is here, she is to be treated with caution. Never turn your back on her, and never give her your trust. Understood?”
“Aye, milord.”
“Now go. Surely there are duties you have left unattended. Mayhap polishing my chain mail will afford you time to reflect on your folly this day.”
“Aye, milord,” Alaric murmured. “I beg forgiveness.”
As Alaric left the hall, Gunnar's gaze traveled to the group of knights. The table had quieted, but he noted Burc yet eyed him over the rim of his cup. Something had passed between Alaric and the cur--something more than the boy realized and Gunnar knew from Burc's expression that the matter was yet to be finished.
He was about to rise and find out what was brewing, when a large-breasted serving wench approached him carrying two tankards of ale. She smiled at him, and he might have thought her pretty if not for her missing front tooth, lost in a tavern fistfight the night he took her in. Odette was a whore and made no bones about it, unless she felt she was being cheated. Then, she took no quarter: the sleeves were rolled up, fists flew, and even the toughest men had been known to fall.
She was still young, and if not for her large frame and muscular limbs, it might have been difficult to imagine her in the role of aggressor. Especially now, as she tossed her head, playing the coquette as she sashayed toward the dais, flipping a strand of pale brown hair over her shoulder and better exposing the open neckline of her well-worn bliaut.
Gunnar chuckled at her latest attempt at seduction, for each was notoriously blatant and short-lived. It seldom took long before the real Odette, crass and foul-mouthed, came to the fore. Ever since her arrival some six months ago, she'd been after him, offering to repay him for his kindness in taking her in. He always refused her advances, even on those occasions when he found her naked and in his bed in the wee hours of the night.
He didn't seek repayment for sheltering a fellow misfit, in fact his entire garrison--if he could truly call the small band of men such--was made up of refugees and other homeless wanderers. Much like him, he suspected they were all searching for a place to call home. Though this ramshackle ruin of a keep was far from anyone's ideal, it was the closest thing Gunnar'd had to a home in nearly all his life. In the short time he'd been here, he never felt ashamed of it, never gave it a thought at all, until she arrived.
There were a good number of things Gunnar hadn't given a thought to before the arrival of Raina d'Bussy in his life. Thoughts like honor and pride, softness and beauty. All things he'd denied himself for so long, things he wished he'd never been reminded of. He pounded his fist on the table in frustration and found Odette standing before him, frowning.
“Milord, ye look painful thirsty,” she said, handing him one of the cups.
“That I am.” Gunnar quickly took a long draught and nearly spilled the ale down his chin as Odette seated her ample backside on his lap.
“If ye thirst for somethin' sweeter than honey,” she whispered, her breath stinking of old ale, “ye know I'm willin' to provide ye that, too.”
“I appreciate the offer, Odette,” Gunnar replied as she downed the contents of her cup in one gulp then slammed it down on the table and let out a loud belch. He winced at the hearty roar of laughter that followed, painfully close to his ear.
* * *
The sounds of men laughing and cups banging on tables in the hall reached the kitchen where Raina stood over a boiling cauldron of cabbage stew, stirring with one hand and wiping the steam and sweat from her brow with the other. If the cracked skin of her hands yet throbbed from the laundry or the nettles, she hadn't had time to notice for Agnes had kept her busy from the moment they'd hung the clothes to dry. There had been rushes to gather and lay, vegetables to harvest, and game to clean for supper.
Raina could still hear the cock she had been sent to fetch, clucking and protesting as she carried it out by the feet and brought it to Agnes in the courtyard. Agnes had been waiting beside a tree stump, holding a small ax in one hand and grinning broadly. She indicated the stump with a nod of her head.
“Now, 'old still and keep yer fingers out the way, else ye lose 'em.”
Queasy with the very idea, Raina stammered, “B-but I-I don't think I--”
It was over in a heartbeat: Agnes grabbed the bird, placed her foot on the rooster's head and chopped it clean off. The headless body fell to the ground at her feet and flopped about like a fish washed ashore while Raina tried to dance out of its bloody path. Agnes meanwhile roared with laughter, doubling over and wheezing as she sputtered, “Oh, to see the look upon yer face!”
When the bird had at last stilled, Raina dropped to her knees amid the flurry of drifting feathers and retched. Thankfully, Agnes had found some shred of pity and had decided to retrieve and butcher the other two birds by herself.
All three were now roasted golden brown and waiting on platters to be served up to the men gathering in the hall. Venison from the night before would also be served, along with Raina's cabbage stew and fresh breads and cheese. She should have a ravenous appetite, but instead her stomach roiled at the thought of eating, the swirling stew boiling in the pot before her making her feel as if she were adrift on the ocean and sick to her stomach with it.
“Enough stirring,” Agnes barked, snatching the spoon from Raina's hands and thrusting a bread trencher laden with food at her. “Take this out to Lord Gunnar, then come back and I'll give ye more.”
One whole capon sat in the center, flanked by a veritable garden of vegetables and a large wedge of yellow cheese. “He's going to eat all of this?” Raina asked in disbelief.
“If 'e don't starve waitin' on ye to bring it!” Agnes shouted, wiping her hands on her filthy apron.
Raina scurried out of the kitchens and onto the courtyard path that led to the hall. A hound sleeping in the shade of the keep's wall roused as she made to pass him. As the brachet eyed the trencher in her hands, his floppy ears perked up. He whimpered and licked his chops before beginning a sideways lob toward her.
“Stay where you are, you ugly beast.”
Raina picked up her pace. She felt the hound at her heels the moment before he leapt for the trencher. She cuffed him with her elbow, but he leapt again, this time knocking the trencher out of her hands and on to the ground. She caught the cheese in one hand, but the vegetables scattered everywhere. The dog snapped up the chicken in midair then plopped down and began gnawing at it.
“Fie! Give me that.” Setting the cheese aside, Raina lunged for the bird, trying to tear it from the hound's jaws. He growled and hung onto a leg, his brown eyes showing nigh the same determination Raina felt. She pulled harder. “Let...go!”
The leg broke off in the dog's mouth and Raina clutched the rest of the bird to her chest then picked up a turnip and pelted it at the dog's big head. He winced, slinking off into the shade with his meager prize.
Raina stood, wringing her hands in her skirts and scanning what remained of Rutledge's meal. The trencher was still in one piece, but everything else was now lying in the dirt. It seemed she had two options: return the ruined meal to the kitchens and face Agnes, who would surely launch into a tirade over her carelessness, or, salvage what she could and continue on to the hall and serve it to Rutledge.
Deliberating over which would be the lesser of the two evils, she retrieved the trencher and placed the bird and the cheese on it, then began collecting the spilled vegetables. She picked up a turnip and blew it off. It didn't look terribly damaged; surely everything was sti
ll edible. Besides, she decided as she wiped off the rest of the items, with Rutledge's unsophisticated tastes, he'd likely never know the difference anyway. Restoring the trencher to some semblance of order, Raina dashed into the keep and entered the hall.
She spied Rutledge immediately, on the dais, lounging in his chair with a wench on his lap and a mug in his hand. He saluted Raina with a smug nod as she appeared from behind the screens, he seemingly unaffected by the strumpet now whispering in his ear. His raven hair was still damp from a recent washing and he sported one of the tunics Raina had laundered that morning. She only prayed he'd worn a fresh pair of braies too.
His entire wardrobe--meager as it was--was now laced with itchy nettles. Smiling in anticipation, Raina headed toward him with his supper.
“I was beginning to wonder if I might never be served,” he quipped. His gaze went to the mangled assembly on the trencher and he frowned. “What's this? Did you first sample my meal before bringing it out?”
His buxom lapdog giggled and whispered something in his ear before Raina could stammer a believable excuse for the sorry condition of his supper.
“Odette here thinks you could do with some fattening up,” he said with a smirk.
Raina felt her ire go from a simmer to a full boil. “And I think Odette could do with better taste in men.”
“Aay!” Odette squawked. “I won't 'ave 'er insultin' me!”
Rutledge grinned, his gaze fixed on Raina. “I believe the insult was directed at me.” Odette was dispatched to the floor with little ceremony.
Raina watched as the woman swaggered off the dais and quickly draped herself over another man. “Your lapdog seems rather fickle, my lord.”
“And if I did not know better,” Rutledge drawled, leaning over the table, “I might think my captive seems rather jealous.”