The Barbarian

by Georgia Fox

  The others laughed. Even Stryker was tempted, but he curbed it. Rolf had given him an idea. Wooing was a sure way to make a woman smile and keep her content until her uncle came. Elsinora had once accused him of never bothering to woo her. He would not make the same mistake again. He would prove to the Baron Burleigh that his shrew niece could be tamed and that he, Stryker Bloodaxe, was the man to do it. Now he was this close, he could smell the coin in that bride purse and he wasn't about to lose out this time.

  When the men were dismissed, he asked Rolf to walk with him outside. Since the death of Stryker's father, seven years ago, Rolf had become the confidant he most trusted. The old man's eyes were cloudy now, his hair thinned, back bent, legs bowed, but his knowledge remained intact. He may not always remember what he ate for supper the night before, but he could tell Stryker, in detail, the events of a battle in which he participated twenty years ago. It was probably a great many years since the man had cause to "woo", therefore Stryker had every hope his memory would be detailed on that too.

  But Rolf's experience, when it came to breeding, was mainly about horses. He'd had one wife for thirty years and their courtship, as he explained it, took place over one sunny afternoon on a hay-cart in harvest. After careful consideration of Stryker's dilemma, the best he could come up with was, "Compliment her on her titties."

  Stryker tried to imagine her face, should he tell her she had nice breasts. Somehow it still scowled at him, even in his imagination. "Hmm. What else?"

  "Hold her hand," the old fellow replied sagely. "They like that—women."

  ****

  Ami and Villette unpacked the coffers and trunks that were rescued yesterday from the flood waters. Some had leaked, rendering the contents damp and stained, including her wedding gown. The material was a soft, loosely woven linen, dyed green. The separate sleeves were embroidered with tiny sprigs of gilt thread that poked through like primroses in spring. A pretty but frivolous, unnecessary embellishment and too much for this place. Even with a muddy water stain marking the skirt, it was still finer than anything else she might find in this remote manor.

  As she held the material up to weak, wintry sunlight, Villette reminded her that this was the fifth time she drew that gown out for a wedding day. "Good thing you won't have to wait any longer," the maid observed cheerily, "or you might not fit in it."

  Sadly it was true. The bridal gown was already too short and the sleeves almost too narrow, for it was made for her when she was fifteen—the first time she was supposed to marry. In the six years since Ami had shot up a few inches and rounded out in several places. At least the laces could be let out at the sides, if she was too fat.

  While the two women studied the gown in the light of a window, there was a loud rap on the door. Ami sent Villette to answer it and Stryker Bloodaxe swept into the chamber, his fur-shouldered mantle billowing around him like wings. He is a bird of prey, she thought—a handsome, blond gyrfalcon, intensely focused, greedy. Always on the hunt.

  He looked well-rested, she thought. His eyes shone clear today, tranquil as deep waters with a sparkling cover of sunbeams. Looking into his eyes, one could forget the winter entirely.

  "Come, woman," he announced. "You can unpack later. I wish to show you the manor."

  She barely had time to grab her own cloak, coney fur hat and riding gloves. He nodded to her maid, gripped Ami by the sleeve and pulled her along at his side. She had to walk fast to save from tripping. "Is there so much to see that it could not wait?" she exclaimed.

  He ignored the question. "How is your cold, my lady?"

  "I told you it was not a cold." He had sent a kitchen maid with the apothecary’s potion first thing that morning and her head already felt lighter, her nose less congested. "I am never sick."

  They emerged into the brittle daylight, where two horses awaited them in the yard, one equipped with a side-saddle. He left her to the services of a young groom, who helped her mount with his hands cupped for her foot, and Stryker swung himself up onto his own stallion. "Follow me," he roared, setting his horse for the open gates.

  Luckily Ami could ride well and had no fear in the saddle. In fact, she kept up with his pace easier on horseback than she could when he was on foot. He seemed surprised to find her riding at his side, sitting straight, in strong command of her mount. Good, she mused. Let him be surprised. This was only the beginning.

  With a smile she urged her horse faster and began to overtake him.

  ****

  Stryker let her pull ahead as they left the shallow valley and oak woodland behind. Soon they would be on the high moor where granite tors reached for the sky, tearing into bruised clouds. He wanted her to see and feel the dark magic of this place. Perhaps the lady might prefer the moor in summer, he thought, but he found a wild kind of beauty in it, especially in the depths of winter. It was nothing he could put into words. Stryker had simply wanted to show her.

  As she rode before him, he admired her in the same way that he would any new filly he'd purchased for his stock. She sat well in the saddle, had good, firm hands. The mare under her must have sensed the rider's skill and stretched its legs accordingly, enjoying the exercise, the brisk wind pulling on its mane as she streaked forward across rough tussocks of gorse and heather.

  He followed, close behind, catching up. The ruffled expanse of moor now stretched before them, the horizon dominated by those stern granite outcrops and peppered by stunted thorn trees. Broiling clouds hung low, iron-grey, blotting out the little bit of sun he'd woken to that morning. Rain was on its way again. Before long there would be snow and on the high moor this marshy bog land would become a treacherous course of deep drifts. Today the horses’ hooves rumbled over muddy ground and flew across swollen ditches, scattering wildlife and startling snipe and lapwings that wintered on the moor. Other parts of the countryside slumbered in winter. But here the moor was always alive, never sleeping.

  Finally alongside her mount again, he gestured toward the distant streak of silver sea. "Let's turn and ride that way, along the cliffs," he shouted. She slowed her horse, as he did, and then they could speak.

  Her cheeks were pink from the chill, and she breathed hard, but her eyes shone with exhilaration and Stryker guessed they could have raced another five miles at least before she wanted to stop and rest. "The sea," she exclaimed, as if she had not known it to be so close. "Is that the way to Normandy?"

  "It is the way to France," he replied. "and many other places." Some folk liked to travel. Not him. This was where he belonged and when he had to go elsewhere he felt adrift. His wife—if she stayed—would have to get accustomed to the place. They still had a way to go yet before they reached the path that would take them closer to the cliffs. He pointed to a grey stone ruin ahead of them. "That is the hovel where the witch of Cynndyr once lived."

  That plucked her interest from the distant sliver of sea. "A witch?"

  He nodded solemnly. "People came from far away to have her tell their fortunes, or cast spells on their enemies. She's gone now, of course, although some folk still claim to see her ghost walking up here. Nothing remains but the broken stone walls. A buzzard nests there sometimes and bats roost."

  She absorbed this for a moment. "What happened to her? Was she burned at the stake?"

  "No. They say she was betrayed by a lover. She stabbed him and threw herself off the cliffs, into the sea."

  Now her imagination was well and truly caught. Somehow he'd known it would be. Her dark eyes simmered with sinister curiosity. "Come," he said, "I'll show you." He rode ahead down a narrow path through the heather and she followed.

  He could have told her it was just an old shepherd's burned-out hut, but the witch of Cynndyr was a much better story. Stryker loved his stories.

  They dismounted and he led her inside the crooked, mossy walls. He pointed out the buzzard's nest—empty now—and showed her the markings in the stone, where he said the witch had carved out spells. The building sheltered them somewhat from the h
owling wind, but she did not seem to feel the cold in any case. She clambered up the slope of broken wall to get a higher vantage point and look out over the way they'd come, as well as down toward the frothing sea.

  "Why did you bring me up here?" she demanded suddenly. He held out his hand, wanting her down before she slipped and fell, but she waited for his answer.

  "I thought you would like it," he muttered. It was not much compared to some of the places she'd seen, no doubt. This woman must have been raised in grand castles, palaces with every comfort.

  Wind ruffled the coney fur of her hat. Her brown eyes squinted. "I do."

  He was relieved. "Smile then."

  Instead her brows lowered in a scowl that was fast becoming familiar.

  "Don't you ever smile, woman?"

  "What's the point?"

  He put his hands on his hips. "There are many things in life to smile about, Lady Amias."

  "I admire your optimism, barbarian." Ah, almost. It was a semi-smirk. Or perhaps merely a twitch caused by the chill. She waited, staring down at him.

  "I command you to smile, wench."

  That lifted her brows, but not the corners of her mouth.

  "If you do not smile, the Beast of the Moor will get you," he added.

  "The Beast of the Moor? You mean there is another, apart from you?"

  "Yes. A great, hairy creature with bloodied fangs and flames for eyes. He roams the moor at night, and in fog, to claim any innocent, unsmiling maidens it finds wandering."

  She shook her head.

  "You don't believe me? Ask anyone at the manor. 'Tis a well-known fact around these parts. On some nights, if you listen carefully, you can hear the beast howling on the moor." He shivered. "Best keep within safe walls at night and never wander out here alone. I daresay he'd find you a tasty morsel." He grinned. "As I did."

  She sniffed, fidgeting with the end of one braid.

  "Come down here," he said, holding out his hand again. "I will show you some other things to make you smile."

  This time she came, placing her gloved fingers in his. Her hand was long, elegant and graceful. As she stepped down he moved closer and her mantle brushed against his legs, the fur trim catching on his belt. Before she could tug herself free, Stryker moved in for a kiss, still holding her hand. Her lips were cold, slightly parted. Her eyes remained open and he saw himself reflected in the great shining mirrors. It was a brief kiss. He had not planned it and did not know why the rash thought came over him. But he needed her to smile, did he not? He must make her content, or when her uncle came he could think the match was not a good one. Giles Du Barry might take his niece away and her fat bride purse too.

  That was the only reason he kissed her, surely. Stryker was not one for kissing as a rule.

  Tupping didn't require it, especially when he took a wench from behind.

  But as their lips parted he felt the urge to repeat the action. Amias tugged her mantle free from his belt buckle and turned away before the urge became a forward motion. "Let us go to the cliff edge," she said walking away under the stone arch of the ruin.

  Stryker followed, catching her by the hand again. She stopped, turning to look at him. Now that he had her attention he walked on, holding her hand. Fortunately she did not ask him why, and when they reached the horses she let him help her up into the saddle without a word.

  ****

  She supposed he did not like her walking ahead of him. Mayhap he thought she might run off, she mused, glancing over at his stormy expression as they rode along. Why else would he suddenly hold her hand as if she was a child in his care? No one had held her hand for ten years at least, possibly much longer. His fingers were so large and strong. He did not know his own power it seemed, for he'd almost crushed her hand in his. She still felt the warmth in her palm and fingers even now.

  They turned their horses and set off at a slower pace this time. Grim clouds rolled overhead, ready to break apart at any moment and send down another deluge of rain. But she felt no desire to rush back to shelter. She was enjoying the ride, even if she could not show it. Ami tugged her fur hat further over her ears and stared out at the sea. She knew she'd sailed over that water when she was a very small babe, leaving her birthplace for the first and last time. It was strange to think of traveling over that swelling mass of dark water, bobbing along in boat that barely stayed afloat. They were almost wrecked at sea, so she'd been told. How odd that people felt the need to explore over water, she thought. The first sailors must have been brave indeed to venture out on a wild, unpredictable sea, especially when they could not know there was more land beyond the horizon. She glanced at Stryker Bloodaxe, proud descendent of Viking adventurers. Yes, she could imagine him fearlessly dashing out into water, pushing a boat into the roaring waves and leaping aboard with wet boots. He was reckless enough. Foolhardy.

  But she too was something of an adventurer, for she came here to his manor, not knowing what she would find. In her case, of course, she had no choice. That was the difference between men and women.

  Looking to her right along the cliffs, she spied thin trails of smoke rising from buildings down in the next valley. Beyond that, on higher ground, there was a fortress of granite. She couldn't tell, from that distance, whether it was half built or half fallen down.

  "Is that your neighbor's land?" she asked.

  He gave it only a cursory glance and then looked out to sea again. "Yes."

  Ami studied his rugged profile. No teasing smile in evidence now. "That is where Elsinora lives."

  He sharply turned his face to her. His jaw was tight, his eyes cold.

  She calmed her horse as it jibbed sideways along the path. "I heard about her."

  Still he stared, cheeks drawn in, lips pressed in a hard line.

  "You were in love."

  A low growl finally rumbled out of him. "That is no business of yours."

  "You needn't worry," she assured him, just as firmly as she tried assuring herself. "I have no feelings on the matter. It does not trouble me." She wanted to hear him confess his love for another, because that would crush any ideas she'd begun to experience.

  His face darkened, his fierce gaze tore into her. "You have no feelings, eh?"

  "I mean to say, I am not a thin-skinned, emotional woman. I am practical. As I told you last night, it is not possible for me to be disappointed. My expectations could not be any lower."

  His horse skipped around hastily, doubling back down the hill.

  "Are we going home already?" she asked, annoyed.

  "Yes," he snapped, his mantle lifted by a strong gust of wind as he looked at her over his shoulder. "Back to the manor."

  "There's no need to get cross. It was only a comment about Elsinora. It was only conversation."

  "I do not care to talk of her with you." Every word was curt, exhaled in a mist of hot breath.

  Of course, his heart was out of bounds. She was merely his possession—a wife to breed. Amias was not entitled to question him. For a moment she'd forgotten that. Blame it on the unexpected kiss and his hand around hers. And his desire to make her smile.

  Alas, she'd been tricked. It would not happen again.

  ****

  Ifyr was out of the drunk shed in time to help him dress for the ceremony. Still pale and slow, the young man fumbled to such a degree that Stryker soon lost patience. His nerves were already stretched thin and Ifyr's carelessness only increased the anger brewing in his veins.

  "Who told Lady Amias about Elsinora?"

  The younger man made an effort to open his eyes wider. "Everyone knows about Elsinora, my lord."

  That did not answer his question, but perhaps it didn't matter. Within four and twenty hours of her arrival someone had told her of his great, shameful weakness. He had wanted to be strong in her eyes, masterful, impressive. A man thwarted in love was flawed, humiliated.

  "I suggest you imbibe less ale tonight at the feast," he muttered, as he watched Ifyr drop his belt on the ground fo
r the third time. "It is not necessary to be in your cups every night of the week." It's all well and good when you're young with no responsibilities, he thought sternly, but it was time Ifyr straightened up. No man could be free forever.

  "Yes, sire."

  "And for pity's sake chew on some mint leaves. Your breath is rank."

  "Yes, sire."

  Stryker had no way of seeing what he looked like in his best new clothes. He had only Ifyr's opinion to go by and the man looked at him through heavy, yellowed eyes, before burping and pronouncing solemnly, "I reckon you'll do."

  But he worried. Would she turn her prim nose up again? "I need a wench's opinion."

  "The kitchen maids are dressing the hall, sire." Ifyr blinked and tried leaning against the wooden screen until it rocked on its feet and Stryker saved it from falling. "Besides they'd never find fault with the lord and master." He burped again and yawned.

  It was true, he supposed, that the maids might no give a true opinion. And since they'd never been off the moor what would they know of proper attire? He thought hard, frustrated. "What about the whore you were with last night?”

  "Which one, sire?"

  Stryker sighed. "Whichever one you remember."

  Ifyr turned his gaze up to the roof of the cookhouse and the broad beams that stretched the length of the building. Finally he raised a finger and exclaimed happily, "Morwenna."

  "Fetch her."

  ****

  The wedding ceremony was brief. A little monk, brought there to draw up the Bloodaxe family tree, was called in to officiate. Some attempts had been made, she noted, to dress the great hall for the wedding. Bowers of pine decorated the timber walls and dried herbs were scattered among the floor rushes so that every step released a sweet fragrance. Someone had even sewn together a horsehair cushion for her chair at the head table.