Ronan's Bride

by Gayle Eden

  He offered his arm, a gesture that surprised her, but upon laying her hand there, Sefare noted both the fingerless gloves of black and felt the thickness of his sleeves. He had some garment under the tunic, close to his body. His legs were longer, strides bigger, but he altered them half way because she nearly had to jump to keep up.

  Sefare smelled his scents; leather, male skin, and a hint of crushed herbs, which she knew was in his soaps and added to his bathing water. It wafted from his chamber, too. There was heat coming from him, a kind of energy that she recognized emitted from strength.

  When they entered the great hall, those already at lower tables, and even servants observed their entry. Many curtsied as they went to the dais. There was no fire because of the warm day. Thick candles burned around the hall and overhead, as well as oil lamps. The Celt and four other men were at the table, all garbed rather fine, already having their wine and beer served.

  Platters were soon lined down the table. Covers lifted then, to expose a feast of savory dishes. One of the servants, a male, filled first Ronan’s plate, then her own, and wine was poured for them.

  Seated on his right, Sefare listened to the voices of the knights and servants, the clank of plate and cups. She lifted the wine to her lips, meeting the Celt’s deep green gaze as she drank generously of it.

  A curved grin lit that face before he said, “The sheering of yer locks shaves as many years from your age, My Lady. Ye look half the child.”

  She set the cup down. “God forbid, Sir. I feel enough of that, given my short stature in a room full of tall and brawny knights.”

  He laughed and raised his cup to her before drinking.

  Sefare glanced at Ronan, who was swallowing bread and venison, just lifting his own glass to drink. His eyes touched her hair as he did so, then slid down to her own as he finished and put the cup down.

  Their hue and intensity so disturbed her, that she went back to attending the meal and focused on consuming the delicious stew herself. On and off she knew he watched her. It made her skin heat and prickle with awareness.

  It made her self-conscious.

  The meal progressed and somewhere in the eating of fruits, another knight, one of her own, the white haired and short bearded, Sir Osburn, who was at the Lord’s table, got up to light a long pipe from the candle flames. It seemed to break the tension at the table.

  Eventually one of the guards, and a man who introduced himself as Albin engaged the Celt. Tall, shaved head, with a long white beard, he had almost clear blue eyes, a giant’s build, and was apparently assigned some task that the Celt gave him. One of the younger lads at the lower tables was induced to play a lute, and sat upon the lower table entertaining others.

  Sitting back, her plate cleared, as was Ronan’s, Sefare had been idly gazing around when Ronan murmured, “Tell me of your brother’s arrival in Italy.”

  She glanced at him. “You know of Mshai?”

  His eyes met hers. “Your men spoke freely to me. As your husband, and under the circumstances, all had to be discussed.”

  For a moment, her heart pounded hard enough to choke her. She felt the heat of humiliation, suspecting that all the males were aware of the full extent of her husband’s dominance over her.

  However, since Ronan’s expression was bland behind the mask, she swallowed it and offered, “You know of his birth then, and the past, how we are half siblings? I was not able to get word to my parents, as the Count’s trusted servants intercepted all missives. Nevertheless, t’was not difficult to find me, though Mshai later told me, he was denied entry many times. My husband did not approve of my brother, and oft raged that should his noble friends realize his wife was…tainted… by such kin, it would be scandal.”

  She dropped her gaze to the ties on his doublet. “To make it a short tale. Mshai did manage to see me, and I informed him of my years with the Count. Much, he could gather himself, having spied and asked questions of the knights and servants. But he wished to confront Baiardo. He would have killed him—had I not begged him otherwise.”

  She took a long breath and released it. “All manner of my husband’s punishments could not keep me from seeing my brother. We had clandestine meetings. Spied upon and caught many times, my freedoms were restricted. Mshai was planning to spirit me away, but I was locked in and guarded.”

  “Then he vanished?”

  “Nay. Not then.” She raised her gaze back to his. “It was odd, but one day Baiardo simply invited him to the castle. Mshai played along, being civil in hopes he would relax his guard on me, enough to get me away. However, in conversation, which I have only thought on in hindsight, Mshai mentioned that his liege—who employed his sword—would soon leave to join a certain battle.

  The Count fought in that same battle and I have witnesses through those knights that came with me, that Mshai was also there. They believe because it was not on the field, but in camp, that my brother seemed to have vanished—that the Count planned some scheme to kill him.”

  “You think him dead?”

  She shook her head, holding his gaze. “Nay. I do not feel he is. Nevertheless, knowing the Count, his power and his mind, I fear something worse than death. Else nothing on earth would keep my brother from me.”

  Ronan appeared in thought as he looked away for some moments, finally turning back with, “What is your worse fear?”

  “My husband oft said that men born as my brother, of that blood, were good for naught but slaves. My brother has the coloring of his mother…The Count had many slaves in his charge. The family oft engaged in the flesh trades. I know 'tis common enough, and as much as I know my brother able, skilled, better at fighting than some, because he was a spy in my father’s army by the time I was born and he only twelve at that time—he was born with stealth…I know, that for coin and reward, there are those who would do anything. The Count would pay any price, where he must have his way. He had little conscious and no care of those not noble or landed, let alone foreign in birth. My brother was as well educated as any man, harder trained, and expert at much, because he had to prove himself, even though my father did claim him. It was a matter of pride with him.”

  “I can do little—if that be his fate, madam.”

  “I know.” She took up her wine and finished it. Her gaze skimmed across the great hall now. “But if he lives… how may I even embrace freedom or peace, if I should be so blessed? He is my brother. You should know how that bond is. At times… you can feel and sense, communicate with them, without words.”

  “Aye.”

  Sefare sat back, her hands in her lap while her gaze scanned over his mask. She put such boldness down to the wine. “Will you look for him? Try to track him, from the moment he vanished? ‘Tis dangerous to question any of the men loyal to—”

  “I have dispersed men there already. T’was done after your knights spoke to me.”

  “Thank you.”

  He shrugged. “I can promise nothing.”

  “No. But 'tis enough.” She rose and excused herself, suddenly feeling the impossibility of finding Mshai—and too depressingly reminded of her life with the Count.

  As she passed by Ronan, who had stood, he murmured, “Your steed will be ready after the morning meal.”

  Sefare nodded and kept going, up the stairs, and to the solar, where she sat on the window seat, looking out at the night sky. Would life ever be normal—ever be filled with love she’d had as a child—the hope that made living even in hard times, a bit easier?

  Laying her head on her arms, she wished she could go back to that elaborate wedding, and flee before t'was done. As any young girl, she had been caught up in the excitement, the formal trappings and impressive guests—the romance. Too late she realized that the older man, handsome and lauded in battle, noble in birth, was quite different in private, brutally different.

  Deep inside there was a greater innocence and eagerness she wished she could recapture. Along with boldness and bravery, a confidence she had had—there
had also been the normal female desires. It took shutting down to endure her marriage, and she did not know how to reopen those doors, even if she wished to.

  Chapter Four

  Ronan was already mounted on his charger. A boy held the reins to Sefare’s white steed as they awaited her exit. He had not slept in the solar chambers, but in the tower. He had that tense feeling that the nightmares were going to plague him. And, they had. He relived moments in the tower, moments watching his family die, and he swam through blood to emerge from the horrors. Ronan recognized it was something that happened before a Tourney or battle; usually they visited him for several nights.

  He shook free of those thoughts when Sefare emerged from the castle. Morning mist still clung at the early hour, and at first, he saw only her mantle and boots, a deep blue cloak. When the lad gave her a leg into the saddle and she went astride, he noted as she pushed back the mantle, that she wore leather breeches, a linen blouse, and tunic of buff leather.

  “Ready?”

  She glanced at him, having gathered the reins in her gloved hands. Her gaze went from his mask, to his leathers; plain riding clothing and a dun cloak. “Aye.”

  He kneed the mount. They galloped toward the gatehouse, down to the bridge, and over the moat. The thick forest just budding and the crisp morning air brought with it the loom and nutty bouquets before they entered the woodland, and took the well-carved path.

  The gallop was slowed ultimately. He noted her expert seat, the comfort she had with the beast, and he her. She was as natural in the saddle as he was, Ronan thought. They rode almost to the edge of the woodland before the spray of sun filtered down through the trees ahead. Dull thuds from the mounts hooves joined the call of birds and chirping of creatures. He was aware of it, alert, as any who knew danger could be anywhere. Ronan was scanning past oaks when she spoke and drew his attention.

  “Did you win that stallion?" She had asked

  “Aye.” He glanced at her, naming some famed French noble who had to forfeit it. “And you, did you bring that beast with you when you wed?”

  “Nay. He is not that aged. My husband rejected a colt because the animal would not be tamed. The Count nearly killed him, trying to beat him to submission. He had jumped the enclosure and fled. I was watching from the castle and later slipped out. It took many weeks to gain his trust.”

  She pat the horse’s muscled neck. “He lived in the woods and I ventured to the edge and left him apples, and would just sit and talk to him.” She smiled slightly. “There was a Groom I trusted, who slipped him in the stall, and until we were leaving for their family seat, the Count did not realize I had him. I rode him with no trouble.”

  “And how did he take that?”

  She looked away, her smile gone. “He punished me. However, I was wise enough to hide the steed from then on. Sir Markus, one of my knights, saw to him—until the night we fled.”

  They stopped and Ronan dismounted, awaiting her whist they led the mounts to a small pool to drink. He felt her brush against his shoulder whilst she stood beside him. They both looked at each other and held gazes while the horses drank their fill. It was he who broke it and turned, leading the horse back on the path for a bit, and she walked beside, doing the same.

  “What is it like, to be champion of something? To be the master… and rule the Tourney field?”

  “Hollow.”

  Sefare glanced at him.

  Ronan only flickered one at her before murmuring, “It was all for one purpose, and remains so. We had not the luxury, as the nobles and knights who do so only for glory, to bask in the cheers. Our reputations were not akin to that. We used that means to acquire wealth. To instill awe, and fear, and to meet our enemies one on one. I gave Pagan the leave to be champion—and used my wealth to ensnare and make those accountable, beholden to me.”

  “And you’ve won. Vanquished them.”

  “Not so.” He shook his head. “Only death. Mine. Perhaps Pagans, will end it.”

  After a few quiet moments, she offered, “I dreamed of killing my husband, planned it, and went through the means; poison, swords, an accident. It was never possible, of course. However, there is no defining how it feels to be utterly at someone’s mercy, stripped of everything—when in the back of your mind, you can see yourself, if freed, able to kill them. Of course, freedom has to come—and it did not. Someone killed him for me. But it solves not all my problems.”

  “Aye.” Ronan knew exactly those feelings, only he had been a lad then. Still, even absolution in that duel, did not bring back family, and it in essence enflamed those in exile further.

  He stopped to remount, and then realized she would need a leg up on the massive horse. He dropped the reins of the trained mount, and lifted her where she waited, without thinking. He lifted her easily by the waist, his larger gloved hands under her cloak, feeling her shape in those few seconds.

  When she was seated and taking up the reins, in lowering his hands from her, he brushed against her thigh. His gaze flickered up to find her looking down at him, her face a bit flushed. For a moment more he stood there, struggling between the allure of her, the natural attraction because he was a man and she was woman, and the reality that he knew—that such thoughts would lead where he would not go.

  She murmured then, as if musing to herself, “It is odd, you know, but what one sees of your face, your eyes, it almost makes the mask you wear invisible.”

  Ronan stiffened and stepped back. He went to his horse and mounted.

  “Was I insensitive to say that?”

  “Nay.” He stared at the path ahead as they rode back. “But ‘tis not simply my face that carries the past.” He kneed the horse to a gallop and she caught up. They rode back to the castle in silence.

  * * * *

  After parting from her, giving the horses over, Ronan went to the exercise yard with Ualtar, to work with the men. He avoided the probing looks the Celt gave him, having known of the ride—since Ronan excused himself from the training for an hour.

  At the noon bell, they stopped and sheathed weapons. Ronan sat upon the low wall and ate cheese, bread, and sipped mead, beside the Celt. He had given over his cloak and his sleeves were rolled up, gloves peeled off, in favor of palm guards.

  “Yer lady rides as well as Illara.”

  “Aye.” Ronan looked at the Celt, ignoring the emphasis on your lady.

  “Her men ha said she trained that steed herself. Quite a skill that.”

  “Yes. She spoke of it.”

  Ualtar grunted and bent his knee, drinking half the mead before wiping his mouth and saying, “I ha wind that she is meeting the Smith this after noon.”

  Ronan regarded him. “They are females, what is the import in that?”

  “If I ha me guess? I would say she desires to train. Yer sister in law, did mention Lord John taught the Lady Sefare too.”

  Ronan got down from the wall, leaving his cloak there and sword. “Did the Smith tell you this?”

  “Nay.” The Celt smiled, showing his white teeth. “’Twas a Groom what overheard a few things.”

  “‘Tis not a bad thing. That she can defend herself.”

  “N’er said it was. In fact, I agree. Better if she can. However, ‘tis assumed it ha been many years since she held a weapon.”

  Hands on his hips, Ronan looked past the wall toward the main courtyard.

  The Celt said, “Ye should take the tact that Pagan did. Better to be assured she is trained well, than scoff at the notion. Seems ta me she’s had little chance ta fight back, and has some anger to burn as well.”

  “What would you have me do?” Ronan asked sarcastically. “Spar with her.”

  Those green eyes twinkled. “In another manner, t’wounldnt hurt if ye did—spar— rather than act the stone and silent. However, I was speaking of the overseeing, to assure yerself ‘tis no play, but a serious skill.”

  Ronan grunted again, but marking the hour, headed toward the castle. He strode across the courtyard, h
eading for the Smithy before he caught something out the corner of his eye. Passing by the arched and shaded tunnel that ran between chapel and keep, he caught the flash of blade.

  Halting, he approached from the side and entered, staying near the wall and spotting them when his eyes adjusted to dimmer light. There was an unrolled hide with several swords and daggers laying in it. The women, uneven in height and bulk, were a foot beyond, facing and going through several slow movements with the blades they held—which told him they were discussing technique.

  After some moments, the Smith, who was closest to him, stepped back, and an exchange of blows began. It was a testing, not aggressive. He moved closer, considering closely only Sefare now, in breeches, boots, linen tunic, and wielding a fine sword, light, decorative as Illara’s had been, but with a curve in the blade.

  She was clearly focused, but as she was driven back a step, her gaze flickered to him. Ronan did not try to hide himself. His arms were folded, shoulders against the wall, and he merely observed.

  The ring of blade, a hiss, and occasional grunt sounded. He did nothing for a half hour, even after the Smith too saw him and nodded, before getting back to the practice.

  When Sefare held up her hand, they stopped, Sefare rubbing her wrist holding the sword and muttering something. The Smith went to two wineskins and tossed her one. She caught it with her free hand and came toward Ronan, putting down her sword to drink.

  Unfolding his arms, he took it up and looked it over, feeling the damp hilt and glancing at her, the moment she wiped drops of water from her lips.

  “Is this the sword you were trained with?”

  “Nay.” She corked the skin and lay it down, going to the hide and returning, with a straight blade, plain hilt sword—save for the wider guard and wrapped grip. It had a unique thumbhole to keep a hand from slipping.

  Ronan noted the small size of the hole and nodded. “This is your weapon.” He turned it and met her gaze. “Your hand is small, it slips on the other and that one is heavier, it tires your wrist.” He glanced at the Smith who sat on the ground, ankles crossed, watching them with interest, but merely listening.