by Maria Ling
"There'll be something to pay, I'll hazard," Roland observed.
"There always is," Henry said. "I was going to put it up myself, from the manor accounts. But since I'm doing you such a good turn, you can share some of the plenty from that last tourney of yours."
Roland swore at him.
"Glad to hear it," Henry said. "Thought you'd be keen."
But it was the best solution, Roland admitted. He could take his time with the girl, and not have to keep one ear open for the steward and clerks. A house would have some corner in which to keep her sister out of the way, too.
"Very well," Roland said. "Tell me how much you want and I'll leave it in horseflesh and armour."
"Good," Henry said. "That's settled, then."
***
Leofe relaxed as the castle came into view, perched like a grey raven on an outcrop that overlooked the fields. She'd never thought she'd feel happy to arrive at such a place, and perhaps 'happy' was too strong a word. 'Relieved' might be nearer, not least because her sister still complained. And it was uncomfortable, Leofe admitted as much, she'd thought she was being torn to pieces on that first dreadful ride. She felt worse now, her crotch ached and burned, she could weep to think of what it must feel like after Roland had finished with her. Because it must be now, she thought, or tonight, whenever he could excuse himself from the company of men and take from her what she owed. Which she did, no question, she owed him twice as much as before. But even so, she flinched from the idea. The pain alone must be --
Henry threw a few quick words to Roland, who flicked back what sounded like assent. Leofe started out of her dismal thoughts, glanced around to see what was happening. Nothing, as far as she could tell. Roland leaned over to seize the pony's reins, close by the bit, and held it back with his own horse. Nearly all the rest of the men broke into a trot, and carried on up the lane towards the castle. Only Leofe and her sister, the two brothers, and three men she guessed belonged to Henry, remained.
It would be here, then. Must be. And those three men -- no, she didn't want to complete the thought. Felt too weary even for terror. And the threat seemed remote now, unreal. They wouldn't go to all this trouble, she thought, not for that. Surely.
Henry rode off, and Roland followed, still guiding the pony which pricked up its ears.
"What's happening?" Ymma shifted miserably, almost pulling Leofe over.
"I don't know," Leofe said. "I thought we were going to the castle, but apparently we're not."
"Oh God." Her sister began to weep. "Why didn't you leave me at home?"
"You wanted to come," Leofe snapped. She was tired and hurting and scared, she didn't need this whining on top of it all. "Maybe they've found a better place for us to stay."
She closed her ears to her sister's wails as best she could, glanced back at the three knights who followed. They weren't looking at her, just kept an indifferent eye on their surroundings. A guard, she thought. But whether to prevent two unarmed girls from escaping, or to protect their lord from any danger, she didn't know.
They rode through a stretch of woodland, along a neat and well-kept earthen path. Hunting grounds, Leofe thought, one of the village men had worked as a beater in his youth. Here, maybe, though she'd never heard him mention the name of the place. Not that he'd spoken much to her, she was only a girl.
A drizzle started as they journeyed under the trees, the leaves whispered and hissed with the steady touch of drops.
At last they emerged into open ground again, to see a long low building, almost like a barn, but built in stone and with large glass-paned windows that watched the countryside around it. Henry rode up to the side of the house and whistled. A man in coarse linen shirt and hose, his well-cut boots suspiciously like Henry's own, emerged from the back of the house and nodded greeting.
Roland dismounted, helped down Ymma who shrank from him as from an ogre, and then lifted down Leofe herself with a shrug and a wry smile. The man led the horses away. Henry dismounted as well, and swapped brief words with the knights, who followed the man towards the back of the house.
"This," Henry told Leofe and Ymma in English, "is where my mistress lives. She'll put you up for as long as my brother is pleased to keep you." He studied each of their faces in turn. "Her skills run to stitching and cold compresses, too. Come." He strode on into the house. Leofe pulled her sister along by the arm.
The lady who met them just within the door greeted Henry coolly in French, then turned horrified eyes on the two young women.
"Not mine," Henry said. "Spare me the preaching. They belong to my brother. Clean them up as best you can, and give them your maid's room."
"How long are they staying for?" the lady asked.
"Damned if I know. Two or three weeks, maybe. Ask him when he's had a chance to try them out. Separately or together, I've no idea what his preferences are."
The lady spat out an oath in French, so fiercely that Roland snorted.
"Don't start on me," Henry said. "He's my guest, that makes them yours. Just -- I don't know. Clean them up. And get me a drink."
The lady turned disdainful eyes on the two draggled women. "You're not coming upstairs in that condition," she said. "Go to the kitchen. I'll have my maid come down to you. Henry, go and sit somewhere and stop being a bully. You, too." She glared at Roland, who took a step back. "And no violence in my house, you hear me?"
"It wasn't him," Henry said. "Long story, I'll tell you after a fuck. And he doesn't speak English."
The lady harangued both brothers equally in French, which did send them off up the stairs. Then turned back to Leofe. "My name is Alice," she said. "You can stay. Tell me who did this and I'll make sure my men set the dogs on them if they come near this place."
"It's...a long story," Leofe admitted. She felt weak with relief and the aftermath of fear. "If we may have a cloth and some hot water -- "
"Of course," Alice said. "This way."
***
So now she was here, washed and dressed in clean clothes -- such clothes! fine soft linen closely embroidered with gold thread, a loose wool tunic dyed so deep a blue it made her shiver -- and alone once again, in a room where a bed waited. She and her sister had both been tended and soothed, the pain was finally easing. They'd been fed too, on cold roast meat with spicy sauce, washed down with stale acid water. Leofe hadn't cared for that last part, but it would have been rude to refuse such hospitality. And then Alice's maid had taken Ymma by the arm, kindly but firmly, and led her away with a challenging stare at the two men -- who'd responded with comically identical expressions of wounded innocence. Alice had shown Leofe to this room, then disappeared into the next. Where the door had just opened and shut again, and a man's voice sifted through the separating wall. Henry's, most likely.
Which meant it didn't take much imagination to work out that Roland would come to her, here, and expect payment for his kindness and protection.
She'd have to provide it, of course.
And she wasn't -- no, she could be honest with herself -- she wasn't as dismayed by the notion as she had been before. Not terrified, as at first. Not even -- well -- not entirely...oh, she didn't have a word for it. She didn't desire him, that would be absurd, she couldn't imagine what such a feeling might be like. But she was, well. Intrigued. Curious.
Most of all, though, she worried that she'd be a disappointment to him. She couldn't believe, now, that he'd throw her aside and take her sister instead, or abandon them both to persecution and death. She assured herself he wasn't that kind of a man. But from there to his favour, his actual interest -- that was a long step indeed.
Here he was now, she could hear the thud of boots in the passage outside, the creak of boards just outside her door. No guards here, to block her escape. But she wasn't going to run, and he must know it. She had nowhere to run to.
He'd washed and changed, too. Alice must keep clothes for Henry here, they didn't fit Roland any too well. He was broader across the shoulders, the shirt s
trained over his chest. Leofe hid a smile at that, it dispelled the last trace of her fear. She was nervous now, just plain anxious about what he expected and whether he'd find her dull, unsatisfactory, too ignorant for his tastes.
But she rose, and strove to smile. He looked startled at that, smiled in return, forgot to keep his lips entirely closed. She could see the jagged points of broken teeth, those must hurt him, the blow itself must have hurt. She wondered what kind of fight he'd been in, to let someone get so close. Not an English man, she would guess, nor a woman -- whether English or not. A Norman man, then, a knight perhaps, she didn't know what they did when they weren't riding through the countryside looking for English men to hang and English women to rape. Or so she'd been told, but maybe that was lies too.
"Soeur," he said, and then sought for words, she recognised that gesture of frustration. "Bien." He drew a smile on his own face, so ludicrous a gesture that it made her laugh aloud. Surprise in those dark brown eyes, and then a full and open grin, feral with broken teeth. Poor man, he knew what a beating was. Though she'd stake much on the certainty that he'd been victorious, in the end.
"I know," she said, and nodded so he'd understand, though the movement sent a shaft of pain through her head. "She'll recover soon. Thank you." She didn't have a gesture for that, tried a curtsy. Which startled him too, but didn't offend, he shrugged and waved one hand as if to urge her gratitude away.
Now, she thought. She may as well move now, while they were on good terms, both content and understanding each other. If she got it wrong, at least he might be inclined to indulge her.
She walked forward, felt every bit a child, put her arms on his shoulders. Rested one hand on the back of his head, dark hair clipped short and bristling against her palm. Pulled him towards her for a kiss.
He shook her off, frowned a little. Oh God, she thought, she'd got such a simple thing wrong. But he wasn't displeased, just watched her for a while, and then very gently took her face in both his hands, tipped it up a little, leaned down. Rested his lips light on her own, nudged hers apart, slipped his tongue between. Which shocked her in turn, she'd never expected such a thing. Didn't know what to do, now, because she'd invited this and couldn't well object. So she let him taste her, touched her tongue to his and thought it tempting, lickable, an urge spiralled up inside her crotch and rose through her belly and breasts. She held onto his arms, felt the muscles strong underneath the tunic and shirt, let her hands slide up over his shoulders. This time he didn't shake her off, but let her draw him close, his tongue questing further in, pain struck at her face as he leaned his lips a fraction too hard on hers. She stood pressed close to him now, she could feel the shape of his body against her own --
At which point he broke off, pulled away from her, shook his head. Dark intent eyes watched her, as if he sought to find each thought that crossed her mind.
"Yes?" he asked, because she'd taught him that much, along with stools and tables and fingers. Yes and no, sister and brother, there was no end to the conversations they could have. But what he meant she could not fathom. 'Yes' to what?
He tilted his head as she hesitated, that small frown crept back over his forehead. Confusion, or mild frustration, she hadn't yet learned to tell them apart. But she realised, with a sudden flash of insight and gratitude, that he was asking if she was sure. If he had her permission -- when he could take whatever he liked, and she'd be in no position to refuse. Which he must know. But still he asked, and waited for her answer, and showed no inclination to continue until he knew her wish.
Which she didn't know herself. She ought to refuse, of course, if she possibly could. Keep herself virtuous, or at least not pregnant, because that would damn her in the eyes of the world. Not that she cared much for such judgements, she'd seen how men blamed women for their own faults and wrongdoings, sought to kill them even. She had no reason to care if men judged her in truth, since they'd already judged her in lies. And she needed Roland's favour, his good will, his protection.
Even so...
She caressed his shoulder, thought if she could lie with any man it would be him. The idea no longer frightened or disgusted her. She wanted to be close to him, to feel skin to skin. Which made her blush, too, that was not a thought proper for a virgin, maybe the men had been right after all.
He sighed a little, straightened, let her go. Shook his head when she began to protest.
"No," he said, with an air of finality that quelled her.
So. She'd spoiled her chance. He wouldn't look on her with much favour after this. She'd have to give some thought to where she could go and what she might do. Not back to her home, please God not that, but maybe a convent would have them, her and her sister both. Not that she felt much calling to serve God, even by scrubbing floors for the nuns.
Roland put his hands together as if in prayer and tucked them against the side of his face, then pointed towards the bed with one hand while steering her towards it with the other. Leofe blushed, she understood now, he must have thought she was suggesting they do it right here on the floor. Which hadn't displeased him either, from what she could tell, though she cringed now to imagine what he must think of her.
He pushed her down onto the bed, she let him do it, lay back and tried to quell the sudden rising fear. Swallowed, because her throat was clogged with it. Tucked herself under the blanket as he folded it over her, waited for the inevitable next step. Watched as he walked to the door, to bolt it perhaps or give orders that they were not to be disturbed.
Sat up and stared in utter bewilderment as he left the room and shut the door quietly behind him.
***
CHAPTER 4
Damn the girl, Roland thought. She didn't have to be so utterly delicious. He'd almost lost control of himself there, found himself thinking maybe it didn't matter so much if she wanted it or not, as long as she invited him, as long as she said yes. But it did matter, he wasn't in the habit of forcing women. Gratitude was well enough, he'd hoped for that since he first laid eyes on her. But fear and desperation were something else, and one look at her bruised and broken face made him realise she was in no condition to refuse. She'd agree to anything at all, if it kept her in some kind of safety. And while her willingness itself was temptation enough -- he acknowledged that much to himself -- he wouldn't take her under threat. Not until she felt entirely safe with him, until she knew that he would never force her, that she was free to leave if she chose, and he'd see to it that the hounds never caught up with her.
Not until he'd learned English, in other words. Or she French, but her pronunciation was execrable, he didn't hold out much hope there.
He worried now that he'd hurt her with that kiss -- her lip was swollen and scabbed, and he was only too aware of his own jagged teeth. This wasn't the seduction he'd planned, he'd wanted her rested and cheerful, turning to him with delight as her saviour and her friend. Which, yes, she might well be thinking already, but she feared him too. With good reason.
Eh, he should never have picked her up. Should have left her to her family, let the peasants sort out their own quarrels. The sister, too, he'd imagined some frail and innocent waif, not the whingeing baggage he'd brought back. Though it was the right thing to do, he couldn't pretend otherwise, he couldn't well have done anything else once he knew of the danger. But he'd have been better off not getting involved.
He found Henry's men in a small stable at the back of the house, dicing with the groom. Joined them, found to his delight that they were speaking English, waved aside their offer to change over to French. Listened closely to every sound, tried to mimic them under his breath. Asked, in single words, for water and coins and dice. Won and lost, picked up some counting-words, retreated as his skull began to throb with the unaccustomed effort.
Unsettled Alice's maid and Leofe's sister, who sat close together on a bench in the hall and met him with hostile stares. At which point he went upstairs again, to Leofe's room, because Alice and Henry had not yet emerged from
the privacy of their own chamber, and he didn't much fancy being stared at any more. With her, at least, he felt he'd got some way towards trust.
She was sleeping. Best thing for her, after the day she'd had. He pulled up a stool for himself, near the window, and sat watching the fields and the occasional flutter of crows. Pondered the next tourney, and Guillaume's shoulder, and whether they'd be better served heading for Normandy at once. Or Flanders, they enjoyed the meets there, it was Guillaume's favoured ground. Geoffrey's, too. Roland favoured Blois and Normandy, but he wasn't wedded to the notion, he'd chance his luck under any lord.
He didn't often sit like this, idle, just watching the world. It was peaceful, he was surprised to discover he enjoyed it. Though he wasn't sorry when Leofe stirred, and sighed, and then sat up with a start. She turned bewildered eyes on him, under tousled chestnut hair. That poor face of hers was a spectacle, staining now with bruises, swollen and misshaped. Not pretty any more, he wouldn't look such a beast next to her. Though she'd recover, whereas he -- well, he didn't trade on his good looks in any case. Unlike Henry, who'd always been fond of both nose and teeth.
And who was snoring now, unmistakably, in the next room. Lucky bastard.
Leofe made some feeble attempts at smoothing down her hair, he couldn't think why, it suited her to leave it wild like this. He could just picture her naked, with that shaggy mane falling over her bare shoulders and breasts. And -- yes, he didn't have any trouble at all picturing the rest of her either, and very pleasant it was too. Though the tunic suited her, Alice had good taste. He could set her up like this, in a little house of her own, not far from his own castle -- except that he didn't own one, didn't have a manor to his name, held no lands from any lord. It had all gone to Henry. At Roland's insistence, he hadn't wanted land at the time. Hadn't seen the use of it, just wanted to travel and fight. Henry had muttered something about splitting the inheritance, Norman land to Roland and English land to himself. Which Roland had jeered at, then, but which looked a good solution now. Well, they could talk it over. Not that he'd spend much time there, he didn't want to miss a tourney, it was his life and he loved it.