Because her words, her expression, and her kindness moved him, Pagan slid his hand free and moved to stand by the windows. “You should sleep.”
Nevertheless, her voice reached him. “Who is Randulf?”
“My brother.”
“I shall not tell, not anything you confide.”
“I know.” Pagan stared between the shutters at the rise of fog. It looked and smelled like snow. “I must leave soon. There is a winter Tourney on the boarder. You will be safe here, so long as you stay within the castle lands. But the forests…” He wet his lips and went on, “People know of the union and many will abuse and curse you because of it. Though you escape being bound to an accused traitor—you must live with what emerged from his death.”
“This death. How was it possible in the tower?”
“Bribes. And great sacrifice on Lylie’s part. However, for mine, I agreed to murder the guard’s rival…In a--particular manner he desired. The husband of a woman he loved.”
“You did.”
“I did.”
“And the Dunnwicke’s were all dead?”
Pagan closed his eyes as his guts cinched. “Dunnewicke was only the name of the lands, which my ancestors took. But aye, it became a breathing thing, like blood and bones. Once, it was filled with people, with family and light, with children and old men who told stories. And once, it was a gathering place for feasts and friends--before they betrayed us all.”
The fire crackled and a cold wind seemed to rattle the shutters against the bolts.
Pagan heard her say, “I don’t recall if my father mentioned you. I was hardly still in those days, although warriors fascinated me. I envied them and was in awe of them.”
“When I served Lord John it was for a short time.”
“Did Randulf fight?”
“Aye, and does still. He is the knight they call Ronan of Duhamel.”
Pagan could almost feel her breath leave, and was not surprised when she whispered, “I have heard of him. Did he not win accolades in Spain and Italy and France? And is it true that he wounded the prince…”
“‘Tis true. However, it was not intentional. He was distracted by a face in the Gallery.”
“A woman?”
A slight laugh echoed from Pagan. “Aye. A female.”
“Many wish to defeat and conquer this Ronan.”
“As they do, myself.”
“What does he, your brother, with his rich prizes?”
Pagan turned and found her laying quietly, hands atop the furs that were tucked under her arms, and her head still toward his figure.
“He purchases castles mortgaged by those who betrayed our family. He supplies loans to Barons and knights who wish to travel to the Holy Land.”
“And someday, he will call them in,” she finished.
“Aye. Someday.”
Silence fell between them and Pagan was thankful for the cold air at his back, because the image of her there in that bed burned through his body and mind. He was guilty of thinking little beyond winning her and freeing her from Starlings plans. Pagan would have done so years before and returned her to her lands, but his life, his constant presence at the Tourneys and games was vital. In addition, he departed England at times, to spread his legend further and sell his sword in wars.
Pagan’s skin and muscle, his senses were aware of her femininity. The scents in the room were of that.
“You would not frighten me, you know, should you show yourself.”
“Says one who has not seen me,” Pagan chose a dry scold instead of the tension such temptation caused in him. Pagan offered, “It is enough that you did not run from my presence, nor cringe in fright when I lifted you into bed.”
“Those guards, the ones who touched me—they were handsome, near to flawless. But brutal and cruel. No one touched me in kindness at Starling. They were always grabbing, shoving and pinching. It was difficult not to strike back. I am not sure why I did not, save that I had nowhere to go, and no knowledge of the land, but what I had seen in that castle and the people who came. I do not want pity—”
“Nor do I.”
“I know,” her tone was assured. “For myself however, I would have you understand, that I am four and twenty. I comprehend the difference between abuse and someone who treats me with human kindness.”
He stated, “I am Lord here. The legend aside. I have those under me who must respect me as such.”
“I will not put it about, that you are kind,” She teased on a soft chuckle.
Pagan liked that sound. He decided it was time though, to end the comfortable chat. It was becoming too easy for him to open up to her when he knew such knowledge was not only dangerous, it was not something he and Randulf shared, even with the men here. They might know some truths but neither brother spoke of it. They needed a trustworthy, well-disciplined, and trained army.
Walking toward the door he said, “There will be snow on the morrow. If you wish, after breaking your fast, dress appropriately and I will meet you at the stables for your…exercises.”
“My thanks,” she called, and then gently, “Sleep well, my beast.”
Pagan stifled any response and hurried his stride, leaning back against the door after closing it. Everything in him wanted to strip down and crawl under those furs with her. Not just his body, but also his soul that responded to Illara.
She was no typical Lady and though Pagan expected her to be unique, he had not figured on being drawn to her, not sexually—and not in other ways. He would travel to Thresford too in the early spring. Although Pagan should take her, he supposed, to see her father’s castle. However, he would be gone often until he retired the legend. He did not want anything or anyone to keep him from finishing the deed.
When he retired to the castle, to build the town and his lands, he still could not afford to reveal himself, even were he not scarred.
Chapter Three
There were inches of snow covering the landscape when Illara arose, and more plump flakes drifting down. She had not slept long after Pagan’s departure, having spent much time pondering their exchange.
Now she hurried though and slipped on a soft flannel blouse with close fitting sleeves, a leather shirt over that, and her breeches. The boots were made for another clime but water proofed. She pulled on wool hose before donning them. Soon Illara was sighing at the comfortable clothing after so long in itchy gowns and corset pieces.
Hurrying to the mirror, she combed her hair then braided it and tucked the end under. Then, back to the trunks. Underneath the saddle, was folded her supple hide cloak, dyed with burgundy with a wide hood. Next came her sword and buckler. She drew the weapon out of the sheath, remembering the day her father presented it to her. It was no match for a broad sword, but strong steel, scrolled beautifully and inlaid down the blade. She had curved daggers he had made for her, and other weapons wrapped in cloth, but the sword was her favorite.
She re-sheathed it and fit the strap over her head so the sword rested on her back. Laying out the saddle to show Pagan later, she deposited it on one of the trunks. It took some digging to find her gloves, for she was only allowed wool at Starling and nothing when scrubbing the chapel. She drew on the suede gauntlets, measured for her hands, flexing her fingers in the softness.
Looking at herself, she put her hands on her hips and smiled. Now there was Illara. The woman she knew well. English beauty did not include such strength in lines, yet she was satisfied. She remembered having a beautiful mother and no envy for it. She was conscious that they were forever attending weddings, as even in foreign lands daughters and sisters did not escape being wed young. Her father was too attached to her to care for things like that, but her mother oft reminded her that womanhood was unique and special.
Once she had her menses, Illara disagreed. She wished Eve had found another way to tempt Adam, because a curse it was. Certainly, it interfered with her life too much. However, she did realize what her mother and those females were speaking o
f. She had seen and sensed the tension and strange pull between her parents. When they were in a lover’s mood as she thought of it, they oft lay abed all day, or rode off into the beauty of the desert until the sunset.
Illara smiled somewhat sadly, not wishing to think of their last days of suffering. She chose to remember that they were well matched and yet a contrast, Ysola with her honey skin and round body, dressed in her silk breeches and tunics, gauzy layers that seemed to float over her, and when uncovered, her hair was gloriously red. She had decorated her body with traditional piercings, and loved to perform the dances as much as she loved her studies. Her father—he was a brawn and hard faced giant, with beautiful moss eyes. He was a warrior who could command and fight, and yet in his home, a man who loved and nurtured his women well.
Turning from the mirror, she headed below, smelling food and hearing voices in the main hall. Illara paused on the landing, glimpsing the tables full and servants in their wool and kerchiefs, serving mead and carrying platters.
She walked toward the Lord’s Table seeing only one plate, and wondered where Randulf ate?
“Won’t you join me, please?” She invited Lylie who came to place a platter of ham and eggs before her. She poured mead into a goblet.
“Thank you. No, my Lady. I am overseeing some winter chores that must be finished.” A smile lighted that visage. “The master says you are joining him in the stables. I see you are wearing a sword and breeches.”
“Yes. I do not mean to offen—”
The woman leaned down and said in her ear, “The last Lady of Dunnewicke went to war with her husband. The first Lady defended the castle whilst the lord was away—donned armor, and later had her own fashioned. You are merely following a great tradition.”
Illara laughed. “That pleases me, then.”
Before leaving the woman glanced at her, holding her eyes and uttered in another tone, “You must be brave, and not fear him. You must learn to see beyond the shroud.”
Illara felt the emotion behind that and recalled what Pagan had said. “I was born brave, Lylie. I was also brought up by wise people. It would take more than surface to turn me from the only man in England who believed in my worth, my honor, and wanted me.”
The smile bloomed more natural and the woman’s shoulders seemed to relax their tension. She forgot herself enough to lay a hand on Illara shoulder as she exited.
Eating her meal, sipping the warmed honey flavored drink, Illara looked around the lower hall, down at the guards and servants, noticing the guards were young, but brawny. Some had the look and skin tone of mixed heritages. There were four older men, one missing an eye, and wearing layers of wool. His fingerless gloves likely kept his joints warmed in the winter air. He, like most of them, had long hair, two, full bearded, and one braided his auburn beard and wore his mane braided in front. They ate with hunger and talked among themselves, laughing, some growling answers, apparently these were the captains over the younger.
When five of the female servants entered, it occurred to her that there were no wives or children apparently of these men. Nevertheless, there was flirting and much flushing and giggling amid the younger female servants, so they were not wholly without female company.
Finished with her meal, she strode to the stairs and went around, down a narrow hall in search of the lower Garderobe. She found it, shivering at the wind whistling up the holes, and after doing her business, she stopped at the water-filled niche to wash her hands.
Turning again, Illara faced the flushed cheeks of a young man of perhaps nineteen. He twisted his leather hat in his hands and bowed. “Milady.”
“Sir.”
He flushed darker. “Not, Sir. I am the Kennel keeper here, my name is Ivo.”
“Good morning, Ivo.” She grinned at him and let him go to his own business because he obviously was in need.
She exited via one of the entry doors, battered with both wintry air and flakes of snow. Whilst she pulled up the hood, Illara stood looking at all the tracks in the courtyard. She had slept late compared to others. She walked down the steps, seeing now the geese and chickens running about, and hearing the faint ring of hammers. At the bottom, she strode toward the stables, her breath misting while craning her neck to eye the castle exterior and over to the wall, observing the guards making their pass.
Her boots held up well during the wet trek, but she made a mental note to sew fur in them. The stables were easy to find as the gaping entries were arched and the center opened for the smith. A plume of smoke rose from a stone chimney. The yard was not paved but muddy where the massive horses were led in and out, some wearing blankets and others full gear and tack.
Aware that the men turned to look at her, Illara nodded and took note of their faces and warm clothing. Most were not helmed, but many wore hats of various fashions. A few had wool over their heads, too. The tunic shirts were fashioned with hoods that kept their neck and ears warm. Still it was interesting, to see their diverse looks, from handsome and tall to squat but powerfully muscled. One had broken his nose so many times it sat crooked on his face.
“Welcome, my lady.” The smith ceased his billows and wiped the back of his hand over his brown brow. “The master is at the rear, through there.”
She called her thanks over the hiss of coals and some yelling from the men behind them to each other. The coals, a round glowing well of them, with a long trough of water running alongside, heated the area so intense that it condensed the scents. Illara walked past stalls, and inhaled the earthy odor of horses, dried grasses, and grains.
She emerged at a back courtyard of sorts, flagged and having an overhanging half canopy. There she spied Pagan half sitting on a wagon bed, which was parked at the edge of the square yard.
Halting, Illara watched him rise, noting he wore tight fitting breeches laced up the crotch, formed to his calves’ and boots. His vest like shirt was leather and laced up over a linen under blouse that fit snugger to his round muscled arms. Pagan wore gloves too, but most notable, he wore a leather helm that hid all but his mouth and chin. Though tied back, she could see his hair was a long ebony black.
Making herself walk to him, and clearing her expression, she could see upon closer view that his skin was deep bronze and that there was a thick scar at his throat, several on his right jaw—but it made no difference in her opinion to the fact that his mouth was quite beautiful, semi full, and somehow sensual.
However, what struck her speechless were the eyes she saw gleaming through the mask. The legend of fire was erroneous, and the tales of him being eyeless—were certainly wrong.
For a moment only the puffs of breath were between them, until he stared down as she gazed up, Illara sensing from his tense posture that Pagan had dared show her that much. She felt he was still waiting for her to turn, and dash off screaming.
“You have beautiful eyes,” she blurt huskily, never having seen such a pure brass hue.
As Pagan spoke, she also noted he had strong white teeth.
“It was my mother’s doing.” Pagan grunted and waved to her sword. “Go though your paces.”
Illara took the strap over her head and handed him the weapon while she untied her cloak. She laid it at his hip, her gaze covertly scanning his powerful thighs and noting how the supple leather molded to muscle, even at his calves.
Pagan had withdrawn the weapon and was eyeing the scrollwork before balancing it in his hand.
The sword was large to her, but in that gloved hand that wielded a broadsword its silver beauty appeared less lethal and more decorative. She knew it was deceptive. It was sharp as a razor and fine balanced.
He handed it to her. “A fine weapon.”
She smiled, nervous suddenly, walking to the center, afraid she had forgotten everything. Afraid, she would stumble and make a fool of herself.
“Relax, Illara. Imagine your father is here.”
She glanced at him, surprised Pagan could read her body language then remembered that warriors surv
ived by doing that. She nodded and drew in several deep breaths, releasing them.
Illara held the blade out, her arm extended. Focusing, she began to turn her wrist, feeling the lack of use in those tendons, working to warm and stretch them. After a time her arcs became wider and she took steps, turned and stepped, and began the routine her father taught her.
She lost herself eventually in the adrenaline of an exercise she loved, in the free flowing and focused movements, and too, the tight turns and lunges. She had been three the first time her father taught her with a stick, and she could fight with hook and dagger in her other hand, so she used it, flexed and pulled back the free hand, whilst doing her pace and turns around the area.
Feeling her skin warm as her muscles did, not minding at all the wind and snow, she controlled her breathing and even when the muscles jerked or protested, she kept going to stretch them.
Nearly two hours passed before Pagan called out, “Change hands or your wrist will swell.”
She changed hands as If her father said it. He oft told her to balance her strength, to keep both arms strong and equalized, although she was less skilled with the left. There was an overturned pail, a lower wall, she leapt there, up on the wall and back flipped down. Illara crouched and turned, then rose and caught her breath. “I am in pitiful shape. My father would be ashamed.”
A soft masculine laugh sounded before Pagan strode to her, blocking out much with his brawn and height. He took the sword a moment. “I think the conditioning must come first. Although, I am impressed.”
She glanced up to see his eyes glowing and a smile teasing his lips.
“I do not claim to be a warrior, only sufficiently skilled enough, to defend myself. I have a few tricks, too.”
“No doubt.” His gloved hand felt her upper arm. “Let us work on these. You will be heartily sorry on the morrow, though. The soreness will set in. It’s best to work through it.”
He strode back to the wagon and sheathed the sword. She watched him go inside the stable. Pagan emerged with two sacks of grain, about five pounds each. He handed them to her. “Take long strides around the area, and swing the sacks.”
Gayle Eden Page 4