by Janzen, Tara
Dain would have to do. Her gaze swept over him in a measuring glance. Yes, the black-cowled sorcerer would have to do.
From his vantage point in the middle of the room, Dain pretended indifference to Ceridwen’s perusal, continuing with the intricate work of refolding the silk. He had more than accomplished his goal. She was near bursting with awareness of him, and unless he was mistaken, was actually considering speaking to him, something she had not done since she’d called him beast—an appellation he had wasted no time in proving.
Ah well, he thought, giving the silk ball an eighth of a turn and tucking in a fold, what was one more mortal sin in a life so rich in transgressions? ’Twas as naught, because it had to be. Otherwise he would have been buried by sin many long years past, if not in his first weeks with Jalal, then certainly by the end of the first month, when death had looked to be his only hope for redemption.
He pressed a completed fold with his thumb while turning the silk and tucking a new edge. Turn, tuck, press. With each movement, light from the tallow candle flashed against the inside of his right wrist where a thin white scar would always be visible proof of what a young man could no longer bear.
“Are you hungry, chérie?” he asked without looking up. Turn, tuck, press. “I have quail roasting.”
He waited a long moment to hear her say, “Aye.”
“Good.” He finished with the costly cloth ball and wrapped gauze around it to help the silk hold its shape. When the gauze was in place, he set the ball in a box and closed the lid. He deliberately did not look her way, because of her disconcerting habit of lowering her lashes whenever he so much as glanced in her direction.
He didn’t blame her, not really.
“Now then,” he said, carrying the box over to put on the shelf with his simples and receipts, mixing magic and medicine in his way of things, “would you like to eat in bed again? Or do you feel well enough to attempt the table?”
“The table, if you please.”
If he pleased? The night was going better than he had dared to hope.
“No, Ceridwen, ’tis only as you please.” He paused to give the spitted birds a turn over the fire. “I have been charged with your care.”
“By whom?” she asked, the hesitation in her voice betraying her wariness.
“Soren D’Arbois,” he answered, “the lord of this castle.”
“And of you?”
At that, he looked up, unable to resist the subtle challenge in her tone.
“Not quite,” he said, suppressing a smile. “I live within the walls of his keep, ’tis true, but at his request, not his orders. In truth, my presence is sanctioned through the grace of others who were here long before the baron.”
“Others?” she repeated. “With authority over a March lord? Do you speak of the English king, Lionheart?”
Damn the chit. She was forever tripping him up. “Only under duress,” he muttered, his voice dry as he lowered his gaze and gave the birds another turn.
“My lord?”
The smile won out, teasing a corner of his mouth, until he lifted his head, by which time his face showed nothing. “’Tis not King Richard I speak of, and I am no one’s lord, mistress. I hold no titles you would recognize. I have no lands other than the few feet of dirt holding up this tower. You may call me Dain, or Lavrans as you wish, and I will answer.”
“I have never heard of anyone owning a tower who did not also own the castle, Lavrans,” she said with the barest hint of sarcasm. He would not have dreamed it possible for such a sharp tongue to have survived convent life.
“Wydehaw has no less than ten towers, of which the Hart is the least strategically important, both in size and placement,” he explained, hiding his disappointment at what she’d chosen to call him. No one had blended the name Dain with such an innocent sigh of appreciation since... since too long ago to remember. “The peace and services D’Arbois gains by my tenancy is well worth the sacrifice of a bit of ground.”
“Peace with whom, if not Richard?” she asked. “For I cannot believe your Norman lord would allow a Welsh spy to reside in his keep to appease his neighbors.”
“The peace of his mind, and I am hardly Welsh,” he said, wondering if she was capable of making merely polite conversation.
“Neither are you Norman,” came her quick reply.
“I am no spy, lady. It matters not to me which way the winds of fortune blow between the English and the Cymry.”
“I am no lady.”
He arched an eyebrow in silent but profound agreement and walked to the bed to remove the coverlet of sable pelts. When he had it arranged to his liking, padding one of the pair of massive oak chairs by the table, he returned for her.
She flinched when he slid his arms beneath her. He noticed, but continued with his task, lifting her close to his chest. She was, as he’d expected, awkward within his embrace, not knowing where to put her hands, or where to direct her gaze, or what to do with her body besides stiffen it into unmanageable angles.
“Can you relax, mistress? I would prefer not to drop you,” he said, adding a false note of strain to his voice to give her something to worry about besides the places where they touched. He was doing enough thinking about that for both of them, much to his bewilderment.
Her looks had improved with the fading of the bruises, yet ’twas more than the pretty delicacy of her face affecting him. His breath had changed when he’d picked her up, altering ever so subtly to her scent. The curve of her thigh filling his hand made his fingers want to feel her skin; her breast was a seductively discernible softness against his chest. She felt very much a woman in his arms.
Her only concession to his request was to tighten her muscles even further and to draw her lower lip between her teeth. With a concession of his own, he refrained from telling her that if she needed to suck on somebody’s lip for courage, or any other reason, she was more than welcome to suck on his.
“That’s better,” he lied, and did his best to get her to the chair without doing more damage or making her any more uncomfortable.
As he stepped down off the dais holding his bed, she shifted against him, relaxing a little, her hand hesitantly sliding up his shoulder, retreating, then reaching fully around his neck to balance herself. He glanced at her and caught the beginnings of a blush as she quickly looked away.
Poor chit. He understood her dilemma. She was half horrified by him and half fascinated, neither of which suited his purpose of wanting to heal her and send her on her way with the fewest possible complications and the most possible gain.
He tilted his head to one side to avoid a lengthy bouquet of drying rue, bringing their heads close together for the space of a heartbeat. Trailing wisps of her thick hair brushed up against his, her curls of white-gold winding around his own dark brown strands like pale ivy. It was an undirected act of intimacy, an act of innocence, yet the effect on him lacked all innocence, reminding him well of the methods of entanglement between a man and a woman. Reminding him also of the rewards.
The thought crossed his mind to stop and tease her into blushing some more, to force her to meet his eyes and to play a game he had long ago forsaken, until Edmee had lured him back.
But this thing with the chit, this was not Edmee’s fault. It had an appeal all its own, the more so for being forbidden, even if ’twas forbidden only by the needs of his purse and old ties of friendship.
“There is a tale told of the tower hereabouts,” he said without missing a step, continuing on toward the chair by the hearth. “They say ’tis on this very spot that Arthur slayed the Boar Trwyth.”
“I am all for slaying boars,” she said, quiet fervor overcoming her shyness, “but Monmouth says no such thing.”
“You’ve read the Historia Regum Britanniae?” he asked in a manner to reveal his doubt.
“Aye,” she said, casting him a glance. “I can read... and write.”
He did not miss her inference, nor the fact that she had forgotten she
was in his arms.
“Your book is safe from harm.” He set her down in the draped chair, resting her broken ankle on a bench and folding her within the sable coverlet. He started to rise and leave, but her hand grasped his wrist.
“The red book is mine.” Her fingers tightened, underscoring the tension in her voice.
His gaze lifted slowly from where she held him to her eyes. “And a merry chase through the old stories it is in places, mistress, half of one thing, half of another, leaping over the eons, mixing prophesy and heresy with myth. ‘Dragons living lounge with poyson so strange’?” he quoted, allowing a smile. “Poison made, no doubt, from the maiden’s blood which the book says will call the dragons home should all else fail—an original bit of whimsy, that. Dragons in the north prefer gold to blood.”
“I care not for the preferences of dragons beyond Carn Merioneth,” she told him.
His smile broadened that she should speak of dragons with such seriousness. “Ah, yes. Carn Merioneth of the golden apples, fruit of heroes and goddesses, of mortal men’s joy and... love.” He turned his hand over beneath hers, bringing them palm to palm. “ ‘... comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love’.”
She snatched her hand away, her face warming with the blush he’d expected. Sweet novice. There was naught like the Song of Solomon to discomfit the piously celibate.
“Your Mychael, it seems, hasn’t written for some time,” he said, relenting from embarrassing her, “whereas you have been very busy scratching away with quill and ink. Though I daresay you don’t know much about the scribbles you make, or about the odd script filling some of the other pages.”
“I daresay you know even less,” she replied, her voice surprisingly steady. She had steel in her somewhere.
He gave her a gently sardonic smile. “A word of advice, chit. If I were you, I wouldn’t admit to knowing much either. ’Tis a wonder they didn’t burn you at Usk for all the pagan trifles expounded on in your little red treasure.”
“I am no grove priestess.”
“Despite the book, that much is painfully obvious, cariad. You pray more than a saint.” His smile softened as he touched her face and slowly traced the line of diminutive stitchery starting at her brow. Her lashes lowered and another wash of pink came into her cheeks. She made as if to move away, but he fanned his fingers and slid them down to her jaw, trapping her chin.
She was a woman, not a girl, however virginal. There were signs of age upon her face he had not seen that first night. Her skin was smooth, but not taut. A hint of the lines to come feathered the corners of her eyes. More telling, those pale, luminous eyes were shaded with a hardness that had nothing to do with color and everything to do with the will to endure.
His thumb skimmed her lower lip, and her blush deepened and spread to her throat. Aye, and probably to her breasts too, he thought. He lowered his gaze, but could see no farther than the hemmed edge of her chemise. Without looking up, he caressed her lips again, letting the pad of his thumb discover the curve and softness of her mouth. The gentle swell of her breasts rose into his touch on a sudden breath; then she stopped breathing altogether, growing utterly still. ’Twas all he’d wished. Within the depths of such a telling response lay the promise of much more, yet the game was no good.
Sighing, he let his hand drop.
“Breathe, chérie,” he suggested, smiling at her. “No matter what a man does to you, always breathe.”
Chapter 9
“Dear Numa,” Ceridwen crooned, sliding her fingers up the dog’s muzzle as the hound lapped water from her bath. “Your breath will be as sweet as spring flowers.”
The sky had been overcast at dawn, but mid-morning had brought faint rays of sunshine streaming through the window, along with the unexpected delights of bathing in Dain’s bowered tub.
Aye, the fates had shifted and were smiling on her now. Her gaze drifted to the bed. Dain had left his knife unattended after their supper, and she’d wasted not a second in the stealing of it. ’Twas hidden in the ropes that held the feather mattress, a lovely gold-and-silver-hilted blade, waiting for the time for her to escape.
Breathe, the fool man had said, as if such was possible when he was looming over her, filling the very air with subtle menace. In truth, a menace so subtle she had trouble defining from whence came the danger, whether from him or from within herself. He stole her breath, that she knew. He was a master at it, catching her gaze with his own and robbing her lungs of air; curving a corner of his mouth in an amused smile and stopping her breath. Breathe, he’d said, and she’d blushed like a girl.
Damn him. The night had been awkward and insufferable, and she’d done naught but dread the morning. Strangely enough, her salvation had arrived in the form of Edmee, for the maid had banished Lavrans from the solar.
Numa licked her under her arm, and Ceridwen laughed, tickled by the dog’s rough tongue. She splashed the animal away, sending a small wave of water and a few rose petals over the tub’s side, then settled down into the luxurious warmth, her head resting on a pillow on the rim of the tub, her splinted ankle lying on a board Edmee had rigged to keep her bandages dry. She’d never known such pleasure. Bathing in the convent had been quick and cold, and done out of necessity.
This, though. This soaking in bucket after bucket of hot water scented with roses and lavender, this was decadence, if not outright sin. A person with a future as uncertain as her own should no doubt be more careful, but ’twas difficult to think of sin when heat was melting her body all the way down to her bones and steam was softening her skin with its fragrant mist.
Dain Lavrans lived well for a man who was lord of no one. The previous night’s quail had been succulent with a hint of something sweet she hadn’t recognized. Oranges, he’d said when she’d asked, too entranced by the taste to feign indifference.
Oranges. His wealth appeared boundless within the confines of the tower he called his. He had rose oil and almond milk, a glazed window, and heavy tapestries on the walls. His clothes were of fine linen and the most skillfully spun wool. The bed was rich with silk coverlets and rare furs, the sable robe being her favorite. The dark pelts were lush and thick and were the ones she wrapped around herself for sleep. Everything in his chamber seemed to wrap around her—the scents of his herbals and flowers, the bed with its heavy green-and-yellow-striped curtains, the lovely sable, the curves of his wooden tub. His magic. His presence.
She trailed her fingers across the top of the water, sending ripples through the flower petals. Her intense awareness of him bordered on both the frightful and the ridiculous. He wore his hair long, like a barbarian from the north, which he’d all but told her he was, having confessed to being from Denmark. Yet his manner of movement, the way he spoke, and ate, and dressed, belied any trace of barbarism.
Breathe, he’d said, and she hadn’t been able to until he’d moved away.
Edmee came up behind the tub with a comb in hand, and Ceridwen gave herself over to the maid’s ministrations. With each draw of the fine-toothed ivory, a fresh infusion of lavender rose from the soap the maid had used on her hair. Utter decadence, Ceridwen admitted, to be cosseted and fussed over. She cupped her palm and lifted a handful of water to her breast. Utter, delightful decadence.
~ ~ ~
Copper of Calais, two parts: soak in alum and vinegar for two days. Realgar, ruddle, one part each, native sulfur, one part, lead, two parts. Boil in divine water for three days.
Dain stopped reading and looked around for something to hold the book open. A skull on the shelf behind the worktable came easily to hand, a human skull. He set it on the page, eye sockets facing out. Off to his right, an anthanor heated a still and two scorifying pans.
Nemeton’s tower was full of the exotica used by men of learning in their quests for knowledge about Nature and truth—and mayhaps about dark arts, if such a man was so inclined. The very walls of the alchemy chamber were marked and incised with formulas in Latin, Norman, and Cymraeg, along with mysteri
ous incantations Dain had yet to decipher, but which were written in characters similar to runes. Murder as well as magic was attached to Nemeton’s name, and talk of banishment and of a violent death much deserved, according to rumor. Yet Dain had sensed nothing of violence in the Hart. There was power within its curved walls—aye, power to be sure—and enough arcana to daunt a less determined man, but no violence. Would that he could have spent an hour in Nemeton’s presence and saved himself years of searching for the unifying truth of all the Brittany bard had left in his tower.
“Divine water,” Dain murmured, holding a lamp high and moving its light down a row of jars. He’d just made some divine water and would swear he’d put it on the shelves of the tunnel door.
Laughter drifted down to the alchemy chamber from above, and was followed by a stream of water running through the floorboards. Ceridwen’s bathwater. Dain reached out, letting the warm liquid run over his fingers until it stopped. The scent of roses and lavender survived for no more than a moment in the harsh atmosphere of burning sulfur and distilling wine, but a moment was enough to disconcert him.
Edmee must be in good form to get laughter out of the chit, he mused. With luck, if the mute maid did all aright, she would soon have his guest sighing in pleasure.
He had taken the stitches out the previous night after filling Ceridwen with roast quail and leeks and sops. She’d squirmed a bit and sucked in her breath a few times, but no actual yelling had taken place. She was healing well, except for the stiffness that had set in. That was why he’d sent again for Edmee. He doubted Ceridwen would have allowed him to bathe her and oil her body, no matter that he was skilled at kneading stiff joints and tight muscles, having learned the trade from a eunuch trained in a caliph’s harem.
Ceridwen wanted her book back. She’d made that very clear. He had promised to return it soon, and had warned her that mayhaps she should not share it with anyone else after he did, especially with the name Ceridwen written here and there among the pages—which, he’d gone on to explain, could refer to any number of Welsh maidens, and most likely referred to someone legendary or long dead. Her only reply, of course, was that she hadn’t shared the book with him. He’d stolen it.