Immortal Champion

by Lisa Hendrix

  Ari had the boy show him just where he’d picked up the bull, then stood for a minute, marking the site well in his memory. There was little chance there would be another amulet in the area, but he’d come back anyway and dig, just to be sure.

  But first, he had other, more important business.

  He carried the boy back to his father, then rode deep into the woods to a clear pool. There he took his knife and laid his palm open to spill his blood into the water in thanksgiving to Odin and Vör for bringing him to this place, to this boy.

  And the next morning, when he was man once more, he set out for the mountain cave where the bear was hiding, so that Brand could be the one to carry the amulet to Gunnar, as was his right as captain.

  CHAPTER 9

  Raby Castle

  ELEANOR DIDN’T COME down in the night after the dance, nor in the next night, nor for a week after that. Perhaps Lucy didn’t sleep soundly after all. Or perhaps Eleanor herself had taken heed of that momentary bout of good sense she’d expressed during the dancing—much as Gunnar wished for more time alone with her, upon thought, even he had to admit that love play behind the draperies was probably a poor idea.

  So he was left sitting alone night after night, surrounded by snoring men and farting dogs as he reminded himself that it was her heart he needed and not her body. Over and over, he reminded himself, but it did little to relieve the ache in his balls.

  Because whatever reasons kept Eleanor from presenting herself to him in private, they had no effect on the way she tortured him in public. Each evening when they retired to the solar—thank the gods Westmorland seemed happy to keep including him in that privilege—she found some new way to taunt him while looking utterly innocent to the others. One night, she selected a table for merels that was so small, their legs had to intertwine beneath while they played. On another, she leapt to accept Henry Percy’s offer to escort her and Lucy for a stroll in the courtyard—a stroll that left Gunnar to squire her sister Margaret along behind, where the sight of Eleanor’s hips swaying just out of reach drove him mad.

  That very evening, after taunting him with her mere presence across the card table, she’d carelessly let a kerchief slip from her sleeve as she passed on her way out. Gunnar had scooped it up and handed it back to her with nary a word and barely a glance—her father was right there, after all. But the cloth had been so soaked in scent that even now, hours later, his hands reeked of her.

  He buried his nose between his palms and inhaled deeply, letting the perfume’s scent conjure visions of her amongstst the tousled furs of a great bed, her legs spread wide, waiting for him to bury his—

  He stopped himself short, a wry grin twisting his lips. God’s knees. Now she had him torturing himself.

  He could find relief with one of the castle wenches, he supposed—the names of the most available were passed freely amongst Raby’s men-at-arms, and he knew where at least one willing woman could be found even at this hour—but he’d never seen much point in tupping one woman when he wanted another. It just didn’t have the same sweetness.

  So he chose a time-honored path and wandered outside to find a dark corner and take care of the worst of the ache on his own, the scent of her perfume on his hands making his release that much more satisfying. As he retied his laces afterward, he reminded himself again of his true purpose. So long as he had one good hand, he could make shift without her body, but there was no substitute for her heart.

  Unfortunately, her love was only half of what he needed, and his amulet wasn’t going to turn up in the castle well, the way Ivo’s had at Alnwick. Raby was far too new, and even the manor it had replaced had been built centuries too late.

  Nor was it going to be part of some bastard’s quest for land. No king was going to step in and—

  He stopped dead.

  What a fool he was.

  Eleanor had given him the key herself: her veins carried the same Plantagenet blood as the kings of England, the same blood as those who had set things in motion in the past. Her royal lineage was part of the gift, not an encumbrance. Even as he had stumbled along in blindness, the gods had been moving the pieces into place. All he had to do was win the lady’s heart, and they would surely bring the amulet to him.

  Full of fresh hope and with considerably less ache in his balls, Gunnar went in, found his cup, and once again spilled a measure of wine into the fire in thanks.

  Then he sat down and waited with much more patience than he’d had for at least a week, to see if by chance the lady would come down tonight before he had to leave.

  She didn’t.

  Summer is a-coming in,

  Loudly sing, cuckoo!

  Seeds do grow and meadows blow,

  And trees do spring anew …

  Eleanor glanced up from her sewing. “You are in fine voice today, cuz.”

  “It is the weather, my lady. The day is glorious.” Lucy stepped back from the open window and started the song over, swaying and spinning gracefully in time to the music. “Summer is a-coming in …”

  Eleanor laid down the cap she was turning and went to the window to look down into the busy courtyard. As she suspected.

  She caught Henry Percy’s eye and surreptitiously motioned him closer. As she turned back to Lucy, she let her hand rest on the sill and started working one of her rings loose with her thumb. “The lord, my father told me he would like some stitching on the band of his cap. I was thinking a wreath of laurels.”

  “That would be too much,” said her mother from across the room. “Just as that spinning is too much. Stop if you will, Lucy. You make me dizzy.”

  Lucy settled immediately. “Pardon, my lady.”

  “What should I do, then?” asked Eleanor.

  “What about a single sprig? Right here.” Lucy touched just over her right temple.

  “He would like that,” said Lady Joan.

  “Or I could do rosemary for remembrance, so that he would—Oh! My ring.” Eleanor leaned out the window to look down into the courtyard. “Halloo, I have lost my ring out the window. Sir Henry, can you find it?”

  “I think so, my lady. I saw something fall.” Percy winked at her before he squatted to pat around in the dirt. A moment later, he held up the ring between thumb and finger. “I have it.”

  “Ah, good. I will send Lucy down for it. Would you mind another favor, Harry?”

  He pushed to his feet, fighting down a grin. “Of course not, my lady.”

  “I want some laurel to copy for my stitching. Will you escort Lucy around to the kitchen garden so she may cut a twig for me? With so many strangers about, I don’t want her going back there alone, where no one can see.”

  Henry’s eyes sparkled with the proper degree of mischief. “I am glad to be of service, my lady.”

  “My thanks. Lucy, would you also …” She meant to ask Lucy to bring a sprig of rosemary, too, but all she saw as she turned was her cousin’s back as she flew out the door.

  “I didn’t know your ring was so loose,” said her mother mildly.

  “Only of late. I must see to it next time I am near a goldsmith. Pardon, my lady.” Eleanor leaned back out. “Recall that you are a gentleman, Harry.”

  “I am wounded you doubt my good intent, my lady,” said Henry, though his smile faded a bit. “Never fear. Fair Lucy will come back to you safe anon.”

  Not too safe, nor too soon, Eleanor hoped, though she refrained from saying that aloud. She waited until she saw Lucy at the door below, then went back to her sewing, confident that, whatever her mother thought of it, her life was likely to become a good deal easier if Lucy understood at least a little of the pleasure to be had with a man. “Does anyone know where my scissors are?”

  SOMETHING WAS ASTIR. At this hour, the hall should be full of men finishing their meals or drinking. Instead, it stood nearly empty, with only a few of the higher-ranked knights and the family and fosterlings bunched together here and there.

  Gunnar headed over to the washing sta
tion. A boy hurried over to pour for him, and as he scrubbed his hands, he felt someone step in behind him. Scent wrapped itself around him, and it was all he could do not to simply turn around and grab her. “Lady Eleanor.”

  “You are late, Sir Gunnar. Again.”

  “I often am. It is a wretched fault, my lady.” Gunnar tossed the towel over the rack beside the washbowl and turned to discover a twinkle in her eyes that gave mockery to her stern tone. He bowed to her. “Much like rumbling bellies and bobbing. I take it that I have missed supper entirely today.”

  “The bishop of Durham came. He sent word ahead, and he likes to sup early, so my lord father accommodates him. I would have sent you word, if I’d known where to send to.”

  He ignored her unsubtle prying and looked around to see if one of the serving men was near. “I will need to speak to someone about food.”

  “There is no need. The steward recalled you were yet abroad and ordered a portion held for you.” Motioning for him to follow, she led him to a table off to one side, where a wooden trencher holding a half capon and a loaf waited next to a bowl of honey-and-wine-soaked fruits, thick with nuts. “Will this do?”

  “Very well and thank you, my lady.” He sat, tore off the capon’s leg, and began eating while she motioned for a boy to bring wine. “I’m glad I arrived before the earl called for you all to retire, lest I missed you entirely.”

  “I would not let that happen,” she said firmly. “But the truth is, we have nowhere to retire to. His Grace has taken the solar and the whole of the rear tower for his party, and he and my lord have their heads together. They have left us all below for the evening and sent most of the men to the lesser hall.”

  “There’s another hall?” asked Gunnar in surprise.

  “On the far side of the watchtower, near the kitchen. Have you not ventured around the castle?”

  He shook his head. “Remember that I am gone during the days. And of an evening, I have no interest in venturing anywhere.” He glanced around to make certain no one was near. “At least, not anywhere that you are not.”

  “You flatter, sir.”

  “It is no flattery. You say we have some time without your father watching?”

  “Yes. Though we must still be ware of the others. I want no one carrying tales to him. And to that end … ” She rose and did courtesy, and spoke just loudly enough for her voice to carry to the nearest servants. “Your pardon, monsire. I must attend my lady mother for a little. Enjoy your meal.”

  She left him to eat his fill and contemplate this unexpected opportunity. As usual, the lady was a step ahead, able to see the next move in the game before he was even aware he was playing it.

  By the time she returned, he’d worked his way through most of the capon, but still had no idea how he might take advantage of the moment. So he resorted to what he knew.

  “And how is your lady mother?” he asked as she slid onto the bench opposite.

  “She chafes at her confinement. She counted it out today and reckoned she has spent well over a full year of her life locked away because of childbearing.”

  “With so many babes, she needs the rest.” He tore off a piece of bread and sopped up some of the juice on the trencher. “Come to think of it, the earl likely needs the rest, too.”

  She clapped her hand over her mouth to catch an unladylike snort. “You are a devil!”

  “I?” He chewed thoughtfully. “I would like to be more of a devil, but how can I be, when I am always under such close watch?”

  “ ‘Tis true. My lord father’s admiration for you gives us little time to speak freely.”

  “Far too little, although”—he sniffed his fingers—“ah, no, the scent has faded. But I smelled of your kerchief the whole night through. As you intended, I think.”

  Her cheeks colored. “I am caught.”

  “You are. But so am I, for now I’ve told you that I noted it. The traces of your perfume gave me much comfort last night.” If she knew what kind of comfort, she’d slap him.

  The boy came with the wine again, and they both fell silent, avoiding each other’s eyes while he poured. When the boy moved on out of earshot, though, Gunnar propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “So while we can speak, I may as well tell you, I have twice thought to kill Henry Percy.”

  Her eyes widened. “Twice?”

  “Once when you walked with him. The other during the dancing.”

  Her brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “I did not dance with—ah, but Lucy did. You mistook her for me.”

  He nodded. “I did. It is not often cousins look so much the same.”

  “It comes from her father. He looks as much like mine as Lucy looks like me. All but here, of course.” She tapped the bridge of her nose. “You can always tell Lucy by her bump.”

  “And your bobbing. I wager Maid Lucy does not bob when she is glad.”

  “You would win. She hums—although she also hums when she is nervous.”

  “She hums a lot, then,” muttered Gunnar.

  Eleanor bit back a smile. “When she is truly happy, she sings and dances. I was reminded of that today.”

  “Something to do with Percy?”

  “Ah, so you have noted it, too.”

  “It is difficult to miss.” He uncurled a finger just enough to point across the hall, where Lucy and Henry Percy stood apart, talking. Percy looked like he was about to devour the blushing Lucy whole.

  “I arranged for them to have a moment alone today. She came back all aglow and with a bruised look to her lips.”

  “Good. She needed to be kissed. How did you arrange this time?”

  “I sent her to fetch some herbs from the kitchen garden, and asked Percy to go with her.”

  “The kitchen garden?”

  “It is by the rear wall. Very few go back there, and it offers much privacy. Anne always goes back there with Gilbert when he is here.”

  He leaned back, contemplating her, until she shifted uncomfortably.

  “Why do you look at me so?”

  “I am wondering about a lady who would arrange for her maid to have a moment of privacy, but not arrange such a moment for herself. Why do you never go … herb picking?”

  Her cheeks colored lightly, but she raised her chin. “Because you, sir, are never here by day, when the herbs want picking.”

  “Sadly true. It is not by choice that I leave, my lady.” He leaned forward a bit more, so that his breath stirred a loose wisp of hair that lay by her jaw. “But they say some herbs are more potent when plucked in the dark of night.”

  Her lips parted on that faint gasp he liked so much, and the color in her cheeks spread and deepened. Pleased at finally being able to discomfit her in the same way she did him nearly every day, Gunnar pushed to his feet, stepping between her and the nearest watchers to block their view before someone noticed her blush. “If we do not want stories carried to your lord father, we should find something to occupy us that does not turn you so pink.”

  She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “You are not helping.”

  “I thought I was.” He lowered his voice to a bare murmur. “It is better than telling you I want to kiss you into a swoon, is it not?”

  “Hardly.” She looked up. “Do you?”

  “Need you ask?” He chuckled as a slow smile spread across her face. “That’s better. Shall I call for a chessboard? A musician? I know. I’ll challenge Percy to wrestle me. That should keep you entertained for a moment or two.”

  That made her laugh, Percy being half his size, and her embarrassment quickly faded. She pushed her bench back.

  “The bishop travels with a most excellent storyteller in his party, and he has given him to us for tonight. Let us see what tales he has for us.”

  As she rose, she filched a scrap of the capon’s crisp skin off his trencher and popped it into her mouth. She wiped her fingers on the napkin cloth this time, thank the gods, but a faint sheen of grease remained right in the center of her lower lip, a
s though she’d painted it there of a purpose so it could beg him to kiss it away.

  By the gods. If he let her, she could turn his brain to custard on a whim. It would be a happy fate, if not so dangerous in her father’s hall. “As you wish, my lady.”

  He followed her and her smudge of grease across the hall, where they joined a group that had gathered around a bearded old fellow who reminded Gunnar of one of the elder skalds back home, right down to the milky white stare of his blind eyes. Eleanor took a seat near the back, while Gunnar stepped around to a place where he could watch her without seeming to. The old fellow was just finishing a tale from their Bible, one about a drowning man swallowed by a whale and thrown up safely later. Clearly that one had been written by a man who’d never seen the inside of a whale. Gunnar had; he’d rather drown.

  “Thus the story of Jonah teaches us that even at the darkest hour, so long as there is great faith, there is also great hope,” said the old man. “I heard two more join us. Tell me who, please? The lady first. I heard light steps.”

  “It is Eleanor de Neville, Carolus. Do you remember me from York?”

  “Only a little, my lady. My old mind grows too old and too crowded.” He scratched his chin, thinking. “There was a man, as well. A big one. Over here.” He waved his hand in the general direction.

  “Gunnar of Lesbury, a guest of the earl. Do you only tell Bible stories, old man, or do you have other tales in that bald skull of yours?”

  “Many others, monsire. Many, many others. Is there one you would like? Something from the olden times, perhaps.” The old man swung his head, so those blank, blind eyes seemed to look straight at Gunnar. “Like when the Danes pillaged all of England?”