My Lady Faye

by Sarah Hegger

  “It will grow quieter.” Gregory split the loaf and handed her half. “Once people have eaten, many will clear for the night and we can stretch out.”

  With her buttocks aching from the dirt floor, she could muster no enthusiasm for the idea. “Indeed.”

  * * * *

  Warm and soft, Faye rested against his side, the fragrance of her hair teasing him. She was awake. Lids lowered, staring at the inn about them.

  As the evening settled into dark it grew quieter. Many of the occupants chose to sleep outside or to travel through the night.

  Her delicate hands were tucked between her knees. He could hold both her hands in one of his. A fierce wave of protectiveness shook him. His to protect and cherish. Nay, she was not his. She had never been his and could never be. The knowledge gripped like a fist in his gut.

  A group of men drank cup after cup of strong mead beside the empty hearth. Gregory would wager they were not farmers. Their tunics were dirty, but finer than most of the folk in the tavern. Tradesmen or guildsmen were his best guess and getting drunker as the night drew on. They bore watching.

  People spread on the benches throughout the tavern, soft grunts and snores rose in the air. A family, two parents and their five offspring, huddled closest to him and Faye. The children slept beside their mother, but the father stayed awake, his glower on the group by the hearth.

  He nodded to Gregory. He watched the group, too.

  The ground beneath his ass was cold and hard.

  Faye shifted and settled. His lady was not accustomed to such rough treatment. If he could, he would see her resting on silk and velvet.

  Laughter rose from the drinking men and Faye started. One of them stumbled to his feet and staggered toward them. His foot tangled in a sleeper in his path, he tripped, and cursed the air blue about him. The sleeper raised his head, grumbled and settled down again. The drunk wove with exaggerated care through the bodies littering the floor. “Need to piss.”

  He lurched to a stop beside Faye and pulled out his tool.

  Dear God, Faye shouldn’t see this.

  Faye stiffened and pressed her face against his shoulder. Gregory tugged her closer as the man aimed a stream of piss through the window. Faye’s trembling shook through him. A lady such as Faye was too delicate for a place like this.

  A sparkling blue eye peered up at him, alight with mischief. She was laughing.

  The man put himself away and wiped his hand down his tunic.

  A smile tugged at Gregory’s mouth. He should have known better than to think she would wilt into a lump of matronly outrage. He forgot the spine of steel that ran through her.

  Her hair tickled his chin. The color of clearest mead and softer than silk, her new curls clustered about her face like a naughty cherubyn. A delicious, tempting cherubyn with the lush curves of a woman grown. Now he tortured himself and to no good purpose.

  She raised her head from his shoulder, her blue eyes twinkled up at him. “At least his aim was straight.

  Sweet Heaven, but her smile slayed him. The sedate loveliness of Faye’s features warmed and sweetened, her full, red mouth invited him to join her. Gregory chuckled and turned his head away. Far safer not to get drawn into the magic of her. “The place is fairly basic.”

  She snorted and settled. “I wish the floor were not so hard.”

  A thankful streak of wisdom stopped him from offering her his lap. She was already too close for comfort. And the Lord only knew what the good tavern folk would make of a priest with a postulant cuddled in his arms. A pretend priest with no tonsure. Fuel for confession on his return to the Abbey.

  A woman giggled to his left. Clothes rustled, more giggling and whispering. A sigh, a man’s voice and an unmistakable grunt. The Lord had a perverse sense of humor at times. The corner of his eye twitched as his blood stirred in response to the rutting couple. Desire. Nay, he could not risk that with Faye right here. Priests did not rut. However much they wanted to.

  Faye leant forward and gasped. “Gregory.” She tugged at his sleeve. “That couple…they are…Gregory!” Her face flamed as she stared, wide-eyed past him.

  The grunting increased, interspersed with soft feminine moans.

  Enough. He leapt to his feet and tugged Faye with him. A woman murmured in her sleep as he hauled Faye through the inn.

  She tripped, her gaze still locked on the fornicating couple.

  Gregory righted her and placed her in front of him. With a shove, he got her moving toward the door.

  “Gregory.” She gawked as she spun toward him. “They were—”

  “Aye.” He didn’t need to hear it. His face burned, but his shaft reacted in a predictable and disgraceful manner. He marched Faye away from the door. “We will sleep beneath the cart.”

  “I—”

  “These are common folk, my lady.” He used her title as deliberate reminder to his traitorous flesh that she was not to be considered in that manner. “They do not have the luxury of walls or doors.”

  “Good Lord.” She choked and a small giggle escaped her.

  He was behaving like the worst sort of prude. Father Piety was an apt name for him. Most priests understood the needs of their flock and turned a blind eye.

  “Consider my eyes opened.” She hugged her arms around her chest and grinned in delight.

  He pulled on her arm. An answering smile spread across his face. “Come on.”

  * * * *

  Faye followed Gregory through the cool quiet to where their cart was pulled up inside the trees. It looked like any of the other carts and she wouldn’t have known one from the other. Trees blocked the moonlight and all she could make out were the darker shapes of the penned beasts. “Why are we outside?”

  Gregory tugged the sacking from the back of the cart. “We will sleep here.”

  “Outside.” She didn’t fancy that. The trees towered huge and gloomy all about her.

  He disappeared beneath the cart and rustled around. “It is for the best.”

  “I would much rather sleep inside.” The floor may be hard, but at least it was beneath a roof. There were creatures in the dark. Small noises came from the trees.

  “We cannot sleep inside.” Gregory reappeared and stood. “It is not suitable for you.”

  “Neither is sleeping outside.” Anything could happen to her out here.

  “My lady.” He stopped in front of her, so large, it blocked her view of the trees. “You should not be exposed to what happens in there.”

  Faye laughed. “I’m no sheltered maiden, Gregory. I can tolerate a bit of—”

  “You sleep there.” He jabbed his finger at the cart. “I will sleep out here.”

  An owl hooted and she jumped.

  “If you are making me sleep outside, you will sleep with me beneath the cart.” Close enough to grab if something furry with large teeth came out of the trees.

  “Faye.” He dropped his chin to his chest. “It is not proper. I will sleep close enough to hear if anything is amiss.”

  “Nay.” She glared at the shadowy shapes of the leaves against the gloom. “None of this is proper, and I am afeared to sleep alone.”

  He gestured to the ground. “I will be right here.”

  “It would be better if you were closer.”

  “Nay.” He drew himself up to his full height and folded his arms.

  Faye wanted to kick him. Gregory being stubborn. “I shall not be able to close my eyes.”

  “Suit yourself.” He bent and raked the undergrowth into a long shape. “I am tired and I shall sleep. Out here.”

  He lowered himself to his makeshift bed and turned his back.

  Faye’s foot itched to give his mulish head a prod. She stomped over to the cart and crawled beneath. She would never sleep with all this night around her. At least, inside, she’d not had to worry about being something’s dinner. She glared at the dim, oblong shape of Gregory. A wolf could sneak under the c
art and rip her throat out and he wouldn’t know. Nay. Would not even care. He would be sleeping with his back to her.

  There were spiders in forests. She examined the sacking for a stray lurking insect. Her nape prickled and she drew her knees beneath her chin. Great, hairy spiders that would crawl all over. She shuddered. Something brushed her arm and she shrieked.

  Gregory shot up and spun around.

  Faye scrambled out from under the cart. “There are spiders in there. And rats.”

  “My lady.” He drew a careful breath. “There are no rats and no spiders.”

  “There are.” Her skin crawled and she rubbed her arms briskly. “One touched me.”

  “A spider or a rat?” His voice quivered.

  She glared up at him, not quite able to make out his face. Was the great lout laughing at her? “I do not know. I did not stop to ask.”

  “Fine.” Over to the cart he strode and crawled beneath. He banged his fist against the sacking and rose. “If there were any spiders or rats, they are gone now.”

  “They could be hiding.”

  “Hiding?”

  “Aye.” Spiders crawled into the tiniest holes. She’d seen them. Rats were worse, sneaky and devious with their little red stares and big yellow teeth.

  He bent and went through his banging again, a bit longer this time. “No more spiders.”

  She inched closer to the cart and crouched. “Are you sure?”

  “Aye.” He rested his forearms on his thighs. “Now, go to sleep. We have a long day on the morrow.”

  Scrutinizing the pools of shadows on the sacking, she crawled back beneath the cart.

  He rose to go.

  “You could tell me a story.” That would work. “Like you tell the boys until they fall asleep.”

  He sighed and dropped on his seat.

  At least he was a lot closer and Faye lay down on her side. She rested her head against her arm.

  Raising his face to the sky, Gregory leant back on his hands.

  “One story and I promise I shall sleep.” It had always worked for Simon.

  “One story.” He sighed, lay down and propped his head on his hand.

  If she stretched her toe out, she could brush against his chest. She settled herself for sleep. “No dragons.”

  He pursed his lips. “Indeed, I shall tell you a story I am transcribing at the Abbey.”

  “You transcribe?” To be a man of learning was rare enough, but doubly so in one who had, up until recently, made his living by the sword. “So, you can read and write?”

  “Aye, my mother taught me.” He gave her a wry smile. “It was her fondest wish that I joined the priesthood.”

  “But you did not? You earned your knighthood, instead.” This was the most she’d ever heard him speak of himself. Faye hoarded up the tiny bubble of intimacy jealously. He knew almost every personal and humiliating detail of her life. Yet, she had only glimpses into his life.

  “I am the only son of eleven children. My father is Calder’s vassal. When one of my sisters did not catch his fancy, my father gave him a son instead.”

  Good Lord, ten sisters. It was no wonder the man had endless patience. She had an image of rather large, hearty girls. “Do your sisters resemble you?”

  He laughed, his teeth white in the dark. “Nay, they are all small and dainty. A few of them are considered to be beautiful. I was a sickly babe and my father believed I would be small like my sisters. He allowed my mother to dream I would enter the priesthood.”

  “What happened?”

  “I grew and kept growing.”

  “And now you are large enough to make any father glad, and you have entered the priesthood.” His mother must be mad and, for certain, the only woman alive who would lock such a man away in a monastery.

  He shrugged.

  “What else do you do at the Abbey?” Faye had no clear idea of what monks did, but she had trouble picturing Gregory hunched over parchment. He had too much vigor.

  He gave a short laugh. “I chop a lot of wood.” He stared into the darkness. “Work in the fields, tend the animals and transcribe.”

  At Calder, hours not spent with her had been used in the practice yards. There was no faster or more accurate sword than Gregory’s and tales of his strength and stamina had provided chatter for many a winter evening. She had trouble picturing this more tame existence. Perhaps because she did not want to see him thus. “Tell your story.”

  His head turned toward her. “This is the tale of the wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  It was a ridiculous beginning to a story. “How can a wolf wear wool?”

  “If you listen, I will tell you.” His deep voice held a trace of laughter. “And I promise, no dragons.”

  Happy to have him closer, she settled to listen.

  “There was a wolf and he could not get enough to eat because the shepherd was so watchful of his flocks.”

  “As he should be.”

  “Indeed.” He nodded. “One night, the wolf found a sheep skin that had been cast aside and forgotten. The wolf dressed himself in the skin and strolled, easy as you please, right into the center of the flock. It was not long before a little lamb followed him about. The wolf led the lamb away from the flock and made a good dinner.”

  “This is a cruel story.”

  “You talk more than Simon.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “The following evening, Wolf again donned his sheep’s clothing and mingled with the flock. It so happened, that on this night, the Shepherd had a taste for fine mutton stew. Looking through his sheep, he selected the very largest, picked up his knife and killed the wolf.”

  He fell silent.

  “Is that the end?” She needn’t have bothered getting comfortable.

  “Aye.” He shrugged. “It comes from a group of stories written by a slave. They are older even than Christ. All of them are short, for children to follow.”

  “And what is the meaning of this one? That you should not pretend to be that which you are not.”

  “That is one message, but more that those who do evil are trapped by their own deceit.”

  “It is a good message.”

  “There are many of them. I have only just begun my work with them.”

  Faye didn’t want to hear any more words of wisdom. She would be awake all night if those were all the stories he had to offer. “I think you should tell me one of your dragon tales. Make it a long one.”

  She got lost in the soothing, dark treacle of his voice, the words blurred into a comforting murmur, as she had done some nights at Calder Castle. It was enough to know he was there.

  * * * *

  Gregory woke just before sunrise. In the night, Faye had sought his warmth and lay curled against his side. Dear Lord, she was beautiful with her face relaxed in sleep. Her lashes made dark crescents against the rich creaminess of her skin. Her full mouth pursed as if silently begging to be kissed.

  People moved about the clearing.

  Gregory cursed and edged away from her. He could not be seen cuddling a young ‘boy’. He should have moved away in the night, but after she had fallen asleep, he’d watched her for a long while. Free to look his fill while she was unaware. He must have fallen asleep. As quietly as he could, he grabbed a bucket from the cart. He took it to the well behind the beast pens and drew water.

  Faye still slept.

  He moved his bucket to the side of the cart facing away from the inn and stripped his habit. Garbed only in his braies, the morning air chilled his skin. He plunged his hands into the water, icy cold, straight from the earth. His muscles snapped and surged with energy. Waking up at the Abbey muted by comparison to the fresh bite of the air, the freedom of the forest about him.

  His morning growth itched like the devil. He liked to be clean-shaven. He took a knife from his boot and tested the edge with his thumb. Next, he dug out a small pot of bathing soap from his pack and
a washing cloth. Road dust coated him and he needed to refresh himself before they traveled farther. When Faye woke, he would draw clean water for her .

  Smoke drifted up from the inn’s chimney. The smell of fresh baking bread made his mouth water. After he was clean, they would see to breaking their fast. He would need to buy some more food. He lathered his face. The blade rasped against his cheek.

  At Anglesea, Sir Arthur would be busy this morning, the danger to Faye adding fuel to his fire. They were good people, Sir Arthur’s family. Wily as a sack of fox cubs, but kind and well intentioned and their people prospered beneath their rule. He was glad Faye had returned to them. He would never have been able to leave her until he was assured of her safety. He wiped the blade clean and moved to his chin.

  On the other side of the cart, a farmer sleepily harnessed a pair to his bullock cart. The cart was empty. He must be on his way back from market. Gregory would wager it would be well into morning before last night’s carousers arose. They had made noise long into the night.

  A woman appeared in the inn’s doorway and tossed the contents of a bucket into the yard.

  The well water stung his skin with cold. He hissed in a breath as he worked the frigid cloth over the skin of his chest and arms.

  * * * *

  Faye lay dead still. If she so much as twitched, he might stop.

  His limbs were all hewn strength. Darkened by the sun, his skin clung tight to the swells and ridges of muscle. Dark, coarse hair dusted the center of his chest, before marching in a straight line beneath his waistband.

  Her fingers twitched to trace that path and beyond.

  Calder was a strong, well-proportioned man, but nothing to Gregory. His form thrillingly base and elemental, a beautiful male creature shaped for power and conquest.

  Heat spread from her belly to between her thighs. Under her bindings, her nipples tingled.

  He rubbed the cloth up his side and under his arm. His skin gleamed under a fine layer of water.

  How would it be to take the cloth from his hand and stroke it over him? Follow the narrow indentation of his waist as it broadened into his shoulders, up and over and down the sinewy steel of his arms. Her skin prickled with heat. This was madness. She screwed her eyes shut, the image of him branded on her closed lids. She pressed her palms into her eyes to erase it.