Immortal Warrior

by Lisa Hendrix

  The gossips stayed quiet, and January lapsed into February, more quickly than Ivo would have thought possible. First plowing started at Candlemas, the furrows as regular as the passing days, and the motte continued to creep higher. There was comfort in the rhythm of it all, a pleasure in having a home to return to and familiar faces to see each night, which blunted both the constant fear of discovery and that other dread which hung over them. Whether it would last, only the gods knew, but for now, at least, life had a cadence that felt almost normal.

  Thus it was unsettling to ride into the yard one night near the ides of February without Brand, who had announced a desire to sample Merewyn’s ale, and find, for the first time, no Tom. Frowning, Ivo rode around to the stable and handed Fax over to a boy he barely recognized. “Where’s Tom?”

  “In the hall, m’lord. Lady Alaida asked for him.”

  “Ah. Well, take care with my horse.”

  “Aye, my lord. I help with Fax sometimes. I’ll see to him.”

  What Ivo found in the hall only added to his sense of disquiet. Usually all was ready for supper when they arrived, with everyone present and washed and waiting. Tonight nothing was in place. People scurried around like ants, the tables were just being set up, and a jumble of kegs and boxes sat stacked near the door. A maid noticed him and hurried over to take his cloak.

  “What the devil is going on? Where’s Geoffrey?”

  “In the solar, my lord, with Lady Alaida. Shall I fetch him?”

  “No. I’ll go.” Still frowning, he trotted upstairs, where he found Alaida holding court over a knot of servants that included both Geoffrey and the missing Tom.

  The latter glanced up and saw Ivo, and his eyes went round and wide. “My lord. Forgive me. I didn’t realize the hour.”

  “Clearly,” said Ivo. “I was—”

  “The fault is mine, my lord,” interrupted Alaida, quickly putting herself between Ivo and Tom, as though she thought he might take his fist to the boy like he had to Wat. Ivo’s gut churned at this evidence of her continuing mistrust. Nearly a month now, and he still hadn’t found the way to correct his many mistakes with her. “I have distracted everyone for my own purposes, and Tom was caught up in it. Go, Tom.”

  “What purposes could you have that put the entire manor in an uproar?” he asked as Tom dashed out the door.

  She ignored him and smiled at the steward. “I believe we are finished here, Geoffrey. ’Tis time we sup.”

  As Geoffrey and the others cleared the room, the bed came into view. At the foot, stacks of folded clothing sat next to her jewel casket, looking all too familiar. “The convent again?”

  Either she missed the humor or she was in no mood for it. “Chatton and Houton. I have yet to take proper possession of my lands.”

  “Nor have you mentioned this little progress to me,” he pointed out.

  “It was not a deliberate omission, my lord. It only occurred to me today that I must make the trip now if I wish to return before Shrove Tuesday. I intended to tell you at supper.”

  Tell, not ask, he noted. “This is a poor time of year to travel.”

  “The weather looks to hold a little, and ’tis only a short day’s ride, even to Chatton.” She picked up a pair of hose and refolded them unnecessarily. “I do this for you, my lord.”

  “Indeed.”

  “With the extra expense of the castle, it is doubly important that all the fiefs contribute fully to Alnwick’s coffers. As your wife as well as your vassal, I wish my own holdings to set a good example.”

  “And to line your own purse, I hope. That was the point of the gift.”

  “If all goes well. I leave on the morrow. I assume you have no objection to my going.”

  Of course he had objections—several—but Ivo found himself floundering as she stood there looking up at him with calm expectation. At the time he’d given her the lands, he’d thought it likely he’d be discovered and gone before she needed to visit them, and that if by chance he weren’t, she would be more securely his wife. The idea of her riding off on her own when they barely spoke to each other from evening to evening made him uneasy. Yet she was right—as his vassal, it was her duty to see to her properties. And this was the time to do it, before sowing, so she could make whatever adjustments to her crops she saw fit.

  “None at all,” he lied with a smile. “Who will you take with you?”

  “Bôte and Hadwisa, of course, and Oswald has chosen several good men as guards and one to drive the cart. And I thought to take a steward with me as well, to help me check the accounts this first time. With your leave, perhaps Sir Ari could—”

  “No.”

  “But the motte is well started now and I will be but a fortnight, perhaps less. If I could have him—”

  “Impossible.” He turned toward the fire, hoping its flicker would mask the jealousy that must show in his eyes. “He has pressing duties here. You may have Geoffrey.”

  “Geoffrey has duties here also, my lord, perhaps more vital. The marling must be done and—”

  “He will leave instructions,” said Ivo impatiently. She was right about who was most needed at Alnwick over the next weeks, but Ari could never go with her, even if Ivo had wanted him to—which he didn’t. It was bad enough knowing he was here with her all day, every day. “Ari will manage both his duties and Geoff’s. As you say, it will only be a fortnight.”

  He braced himself for more argument, but she merely dipped her head in unexpected acquiescence. “As you wish, my lord. Geoffrey will serve well enough, and in truth, he already knows the lands and the men on it. I only thought Sir Ari would be less missed.”

  The envy eating at him demanded to know, “Was there no other reason you wanted Ari?”

  “I did think to collect a story he owes me as forfeit. He has been avoiding me for some weeks because of it.”

  “Avoiding you?”

  “I’ve barely seen him, even at dinner. He takes a peasant’s meal in the field with the men most days and seldom comes into the hall at all unless he must. Even then he spends his time stooped over his parchments like a monk. I think he has no dragon story in him and does not wish to admit it.”

  “He must be distracted by his work,” said Ivo as he absorbed this news. His ugly jealousy dissolved into uglier shame. Of course Ari wasn’t sniffing around Alaida. He had more honor than that, and Ivo should have known it—had known it, until the gods had offered up their vision and everything had gone so foul. Besides, Ari’s days of tumbling women for sport were over as surely as everyone else’s.

  They headed down for supper, and as they took their places at table, Alaida noted Brand’s absence. “I hope he has not gone boar-baiting with his twig again.”

  “He’ll be along later,” said Ivo, chuckling.

  The meal was a good one—boiled beef and cabbage root with fresh bread, as that day had been baking day—but it was hardly peaceful. Alaida kept calling servants up as she thought of various chores to be done before her departure or in her absence. Already uneasy about her leaving, Ivo found the whole process irritating, and was relieved when she finally settled in to enjoy the last bites of her meal.

  “What did you need of Tom?” he asked by way of conversation when the silence between them dragged.

  “He took Lark out for me, to get her accustomed to the bit again. She hasn’t been ridden since before Christmas.”

  “You have a mount of your own?” He frowned. He should have known this. Would have, if he were a proper husband.

  “A fine black mare. She was a gift from my lord grandfather on my betrothal.” She spooned a stewed apricot into her mouth.

  “And you’re taking her to Chatton?”

  She was still chewing, so she nodded.

  “Who will ride her?”

  “She is my horse, my lord. I will ride her.”

  “Behind a groom, you mean.”

  “No, my lord, nor with a man leading her. I ride her.” She dipped another plump apricot off the
trencher and held it out to him. “These are very good. Would you care for one?”

  The gesture caught him off guard. In the weeks they’d been married, not once had she offered him a taste of anything. Wanting to encourage this small intimacy before he questioned her further about her riding, he smiled and leaned forward, intending to take a bite. Instead, she shoveled the entire fruit into his mouth. It was swollen with honey and wine, and as he bit down, it spurted so much spiced liquor down his throat that it made his eyes water.

  As he choked and gasped, she leaned forward. His heart scuttered a beat or two as she smiled up at him.

  “You may as well hear it now, my lord,” she said more sweetly than she’d spoken to him in weeks. “Not only do I ride without a groom, I ride astride. Wearing a pair of braies beneath my gown. Ah, look, here is Sir Brand.”

  She rose and sailed off to greet Brand as Ivo choked down the apricot. By the time she ventured back to the table, Ivo had no choice but to laugh.

  Brand eyed him curiously. “What is so funny?”

  “My wife. We will discuss the matter later,” he told her before he asked Brand, “How was Merewyn’s ale?”

  “So that is where you went,” said Alaida. “Our healer is fair, is she not?”

  “Aye, she is, but that is not why I went, my lady. I took her a skin of wine, to replace what she used on me.”

  “Ah,” said Alaida, in that woman’s way that tells a man she knows the truth no matter what he says. Brand made the appropriate “phfft” and poked a piece of beef into his mouth.

  They were still dancing around the subject of Merewyn and ale when Tom slipped quietly into the hall a little later. He slid into his place at the low table and began stuffing down food as quickly as possible, trying to fill himself before the tables were cleared.

  Brand pointed to him with the rib bone he’d been sucking on. “That boy has a spirit to him. He has yet to miss a morning, and he was still waiting for me tonight, as late as I was.”

  “Making up for loitering around the hall all afternoon, no doubt.” Ivo intended it as a joke, but Alaida’s eyes widened in panic.

  “Truly, my lord, it was my fault. Don’t blame the boy when I’m the one who made him late.”

  “God’s knees, woman. What is it you …” And then it hit him: the solution to two—no, three—problems, right in front of him. He pushed to his feet and bellowed, “Tom, get up here.”

  The boy scrambled up to the front of the hall, swiping his mouth on his sleeve as he came. “Yes, my lord?”

  “My lord, please,” begged Alaida.

  “You were not at your post this evening, boy, and my lady seems to think I should beat you for it.”

  Tom went red as a currant, and gasps echoed around the hall, the loudest from Alaida, who came to her feet ready to do battle. “I think no such thing, monseigneur, and you know it well!”

  Unsure what was happening, Tom looked first to Alaida, then to Ivo, then lifted his chin bravely. “If Lady Alaida says it, then I surely earned it. It was my duty to attend you at the proper hour, and I failed.”

  Ivo tried to maintain his glare, but failed in the face of such straightforward courage. Snorting back a laugh, he glanced toward Brand, who watched the boy intently, nodding to himself, then at Alaida, who stood there with her fists clenched, ready to take his kneecaps off rather than let him touch Tom. Ivo winked at her just for the fun of watching her jaw drop open.

  “Good lad. You’re loyal to your lady, I see.”

  “I … I would die for her, my lord,” Tom said with pride and more than a little confusion.

  “Then you should know that she did not tell me to beat you. ’Twas only a poor jest on my part. She does tell me you ride, though, well enough that she lets you exercise her mare.”

  The relief on the boy’s face was almost comical. “Aye, my lord.”

  “And how old are you?”

  Tom chewed his lip, thinking. “I’m not certain, my lord.”

  “Your mother birthed you about when I won my horse in battle,” offered Oswald from his seat. “That would give you near three and ten years.”

  “As the marshal says then, my lord. Near three and ten.”

  “That’s the right age,” said Brand from his seat. He’d caught on to where Ivo was going with this.

  “Oswald, what’s your opinion of Tom here?”

  The marshal rose and came to stand next to Tom. “He is quick, honest, and a hard worker, my lord. He sees things that need to be done and he does them. I wish I had a dozen like him.”

  “Would he make a good squire?”

  Oswald’s face split in a wide grin. “He would, my lord, excepting he’s not of noble blood.”

  “Many a squire is low-born, and even some knights. Tom, do you want to try your hand as my squire?”

  The boy gaped at him like a dullard. Not an auspicious start.

  “Say yes, boy,” urged Brand, laughing.

  “Yes. Yes, my lord! I do want to be your squire, and I will be a good one. I swear it.”

  “It will be difficult. Most squires spend their early years as pages, learning how to serve at table, to carve, to read, to speak properly. You have none of that, so before you become squire, you will be my lady’s page for a little.”

  Ivo resisted the urge to glance down at Alaida again and stepped around the table to stand before Tom. “Accompany her to Chatton and Houton and learn as much as you can in a fortnight. When you return, you will train with Oswald, but you will also be page for a part of each day, at my lady’s will, until she says you will not embarrass me, even at court. And you will learn to read and write. French and Latin.”

  “I will do whatever I must, my lord.” Tom fell to his knees and held up his clasped hands for Ivo to enfold. “I am your man in all things and give you my pledge of homage.”

  “I accept your pledge and hereby make you mine. Learn well, Thomas, and you will be a squire and a serjeant. Prove yourself brave and bold, and you may even win your spurs one day.” He hauled the boy to his feet and gave him a friendly shove toward his seat. “Now go, finish your supper, and be ready to ride with Lady Alaida on the morrow. Oswald, pick a good mount for him and replace him in the stables. Geoffrey, he needs clothes more suited to his new station.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said both men, and Tom half stumbled, half floated back to the low table, where the others began pounding him on the back and giving him a bad time.

  Ivo watched with satisfaction for a moment, then returned to his chair. Alaida sank into her seat beside him, her face a mask of emotion so mixed he couldn’t sort it out. The only thing certain was the glitter of tears on her lashes. He touched the corner of her eye. “What’s this? I thought making Tom squire would please you.”

  “It did, my lord. But I thought … You are …” She stopped, her voice thick with emotion, and collected herself, blotting the tears away with the corner of her head rail. “Do you enjoy torturing me?”

  “Only a little. Do you enjoy thinking the worst of me?”

  She flushed crimson and looked down at her folded hands, but there was a tiny glint of humor in her eyes when she looked up again. “Only a little.”

  Ah. There. The weight of a bruised reeve fell off Ivo’s shoulders at last. He smiled down at her. “Perhaps we can find better ways to amuse ourselves.”

  “I would be in favor of that, my lord. Do you have any suggestions?”

  The way she asked the question might have been an invitation to her bed—or it might not. Even as his body stirred, he put the idea to rest. “For now, a game of chess, I think, while your women finish with your packing.”

  Disappointment flickered over her face, but she nodded with good grace. “We will have to play in the solar, then, so I may supervise. Sir Brand, perhaps you can tell us a story while we play.”

  They were soon ensconced before the fire upstairs, the board between them, and Brand spinning a tale that Ari used to tell often around the fire. Ivo sat bac
k, satisfied. This was how it was supposed to be—except that Bôte and Hadwisa were busy putting the last of Alaida’s clothes into a chest. If things were truly right, he would be going with her, ensuring her safety, keeping her close each night. But instead she was going to ride off on her own. Which reminded him. “We must settle this matter of your riding.”

  “There’s nothing to settle, monseigneur.”

  “There is. I wish for Tom to lead you.”

  Her lips set in a stubborn line. “You may wish it, my lord, but it will not happen. I ride, as do many noble ladies here in the north—except that I ride better than most of them.”

  “If you will have no groom, there is a wagon—”

  “For baggage and Bôte, not for me,” she said mulishly. “I no more like to bounce around in a wagon than Sir Brand does.”

  “Hold, my lady.” Brand laughed and held up his hands. “Do not put me in the middle of this.”

  Ivo glared at his wife. “Bôte, summon Oswald for me.”

  “Yes, do,” said Alaida, glaring back.

  The nurse bustled off. A few moments later she returned with Oswald.

  “Marshal, tell me true,” began Ivo with no preliminaries. “Does my lady wife ride well enough to make this journey to Chatton without a groom?”

  “She does, my lord.” He beamed at Alaida like a doting uncle. “Better than half my men. And her Lark is as steady as any animal I have seen in my life.”

  “And do these braies she wears show while she’s riding?”

  “Monseigneur!” said Alaida indignantly.

  Brand snorted in surprise, but Oswald only laughed. “Not that I’ve seen, my lord, but in truth, I would not say if I had, for I think it would mean my skin.”

  “You can be assured,” she hissed under her breath.

  “You are wise and honorable, Marshal,” said Ivo. “See that the men you send with my lady are equally so. She is the greatest treasure Alnwick possesses and I would have her safely back.”

  “You will, my lord. My vow.”

  “Good then. You may go.”

  “Hold, Oswald. I will go down with you.” Brand stretched to his feet. “How about you, my lord? Join us for a round of merels and another horn of ale?”