“Whores?”
“Aye.” He grunted.
“And you just…stood and watched?”
“Nay. Not precisely. Certain things I saw through tents, shadows. Others I was on my camp bed not a foot away. I heard a young knight once, with his bride, who was older. She told him boldly where and how to touch her.”
“I see.” Illara was fascinated by that. She felt a tremble in him, a complete rigidity of muscle that had tightened. “And you did nothing.”
“I masturbated.”
She bit her lip.
“Eased my own loins,” Pagan offered, and rubbed her hand more rhythmically over his sex.
“The kissing?”
“Instinct. And witnessing kisses.”
She said worriedly, “Now I fear I shall do something wrong.”
Pagan laughed a bit strained. “Nay. That cannot happen. If your hand touches my flesh at all, it will likely have my seed spewing.”
She raised higher, her shoulder against his and her body more toward him. “You must guide me through this.” Her fingers moved from his and began undoing laces.
He turned his head and bent to kiss her, and took the task from her, leaving her hand on his thigh as he widened the gap. His touch on her head kept her face toward him. He took her hand again and brought it to his sex. Pagan shuddered and lost his breath a moment, his eyes closing.
Illara liked the feel of it, the hot silk, and smoothness. Her fingers clutched him lightly and moved down, her hand feeling the fluffy hair at the base, then up to the head, where sticky moisture met her fingers. She watched his eyes open again.
“Is this—”
“Aye.” His hand covered hers and Pagan smoothed it up and down leisurely.
She could feel his heart beat jarring him, and sense his tension gathering.
Suddenly he kissed her, his tongue deep and body convulsing. His hand over hers held tighter and worked over the lubricated head. The scent of his seed strongly followed.
When Pagan lifted from the kiss, he fell back breathing intense and heavy.
She eased up, her hand was loosed, and Illara left the bed to wash her hands. Kneeling by the taps in the bathing room, she was soon joined by him as Pagan wet one of the cloths and cleaned himself.
Back in the solar, she lay in the bed and when Pagan entered, asked, “Will you not trust me enough to disrobe?”
“It is not a matter of trust.” Pagan sat on the side of the bed. “There is very little of me, Illara, that is not scarred, either by flogging or the fire. Aside from marring from battles, it is not a body to expose to a wife.”
“I will not look,” she promised.
He stared at her clearly torn.
“Snuff the candles out.”
Pagan sighed, arose, and did so, but avoided the firelight. He stood as a shadow beside the bed and began removing his clothing.
Though only a dark outline she was stirred by his powerful height and frame, and when he slid into the bed, warmed by his heat.
“Come close.”
“Illara—”
“Come, my beast.” She nestled herself against him. “Your body is so balmy, so hard and yet silken.” Her hand went down his arm, and yes, she felt scars and indentions. Illara knew Pagan was tense, but she smoothed her hand over his collarbone and down to his nipple. There she rubbed with her thumb.
“Do you want more this night?”
“Aye.”
“To have your sex inside of me?”
He groaned and gathered her against him, his heart pounding under the slab of chest muscle. Pagan murmured, “Will you consent to that?”
“Yes. I feel…incomplete.”
His large frame vibrated and his hand went down her spine and to her buttocks. There he felt them, their firm roundness; afterward Pagan caressed between and lower, touching her damp sex.
Illara found herself turned on her back and Pagan was leaning over her. His kisses were sensual and explicit. His hands moved to her breast and massaged, rubbed, next his fingers were lightly rolling her nipples.
Pagan slid down and suckled them, each a long time, while his hands felt her body. She glided hers where she could reach, enjoying his shape, and soon ignoring the raised or indented scars. There were so many, some wide and long so that her stomach cinched thinking of the pain it must have caused.
He kissed her navel, her mons, and licked between the lips until finally parting her legs. Moving his body between them, he held her hips and only rubbed the head of his sex there, letting it enter her and bringing it out.
Stirred, she arched her hips, holding to his forearms. “More please more.”
Pagan tensely began to give her more, stretching and filling her, stopping when she hissed, though his body trembled.
She raised her knees higher and adjusted, and as he sank to the hilt, Illara felt a pain even without her veil of flesh.
“Pain?”
“Aye. I am sorry--”
Pagan eased out and his large palms went up to cup her head before he eased in again. Again going in inches. He did that until Illara bit at the pad of his hand and whispered, “Pleasure.”
Though it gave him permission, he still stayed shallow with his strokes. He summoned more wetness from her, and felt the ease of her muscles. She was burning and snug.
Pagan was past aroused, but it was pleasure all the same to be in her an inch or more, to be lying between her silken legs and feeling her body under his, her excited breath fanning his hand.
She moved subtly, her body letting him know when it sought more and though it was likely the slowest consummation on earth, at the end—he was fully moving in and out, and their strident breathing matched. Her thighs held him and hips arched up. Pagan rode her silken heat, stroked and being stroked with honey warmed silk inside her sex, until a climax caught him by surprise.
Breathing inflexible into the pillow, he held his weight still and rasped, “I will learn to control that.”
Her laughter was soft and faint. “I thought it rather pleasant. It certainly soothed any sore places.”
Groaning again because he knew she still vibrated with need. He would be hard in again shortly—hard all night, which she was not ready for. Pagan rolled off her and sat up, scooping her up with him and making it to the bathing chamber. He separated from her on one end, and cleaned himself in the shadows.
Sitting there a moment on the ledge, Pagan said, “If I lay with you, I will seek your body more than you are prepared for.”
She glanced his way. “But you will return…after I am rested. I will grow more accustomed.”
“Aye. Now that I have tasted you, I fear that my appetite for you will never be sated.”
She bit her lip, a half smile behind it that was part shy, part tempter. “Goodnight, my beast.” She whispered finally then padded to the solar.
Pagan sat there moments more and when he returned for his clothing, she was asleep. He gazed at her, thinking that if anything could destroy him—this woman could. He had breathed her, drank her, suckled, and sank his sex into her body. There was nothing he had done or felt, that he did not want to feel and taste and touch, all over again.
Dressed, he made his way through the deeper snow to the tower. Once there, Pagan stripped and sat on his bed, his elbows on his thighs as he peeled off the mask. Dropping it on the floor, he rubbed his face with his hands and then stared at the stone with them buried in his hair. He must finish it, he would. Yet, he wanted nothing more than to be back there, in bed with his wife.
Lying back, Pagan let his hands fall lax. He stared at the ceiling. Sex was heady and alluring. Not unlike battle and competition, it made his body and mind elevate to some beyond thoughts plane. Illara was color, sun, and silk, wet, warm, and sensual. He recognized parts of himself that wanted to feel the soothe of her touch, to bask in her giving, and the part that wanted to thrust and thrust deeper and find forgetfulness in it.
There was a part of him that was beast, and par
t of him that was lord—but he needed to hold onto the past long enough to finish it. He would not stop until he’d come full circle.
Sometime, deep in the night, Pagan lay awake, listening to the ghosts about him, voices and energies, spirits of those he had loved.
Baron Ryngild, a man who was only twenty when he betrayed Eadwyn by forging his name on documents that plotted a rebellion, had challenged him. Ryngild made his riches in wars and razzed his neighbors and fancied himself a man of import. He was oft at the palace and involved in intrigues. At one of the Tourney’s last year, he had challenged whom he called the Black Knight, and it seemed like the opportunity that Pagan had been waiting for. He meant more than to unseat the man. With others, an insult or mockery oft led to antagonism and when they were in battle, oft they found themselves facing him. He saw their fear and he was brutal, just short of death. He wanted them to live, to lose their pride and their wealth, to die forgotten.
A cold wind howled through the tower. Pagan thought of Randulf, waiting so long to deliver his final blows and to call into account those whose castles and lands and wealth he owned. He could retire the legend—when he abased Ryngild, and when he unseated three knights who were sons of his enemies. He wanted to leave that last Tourney ground with the blows still jarring his arm, and the riche prizes weighting him down. If he could have blood too, so much the better.
* * * *
Illara had not meant for her husband to avoid her all together, but for the next week she only saw Beroun at her practice. She honed her skill and found a likable companion in the young man. He was witty and once he got past the fact she was a woman, and his mistress, a worthy challenge.
On the fifth day, it was also Beroun who went to the stables and introduced her to her new mount. A dark brown gelding that flew like the wind when Illara was on its back.
They rode the parameters of the castle walls, plowing through snow and slush. She laughed at nothing but the freedom of it, at one point glancing at the gatehouse to see the shape she recognized as her husband.
Illara did not grow fretful until the seventh day. Lylie had said something about the Master leaving in a week and Illara was baffled, not knowing if something she had done in their intimacy had caused the absence.
She began to wonder if he had told her what she wanted to hear, or perhaps he thought he had done her damage. Her body was fine, a good soak and soothing herbs and oils and she was without soreness. Her dreams however were vivid and she woke more than once wet and aching for his kiss and touch.
She spent the morning reading, refreshing her mind as her mother would call it, and did lose herself in a few hours of perusing one of her maternal grandfather’s journals on medicinal plants. She had put the bound pages away when Lylie knocked softly on the door, and entered carrying a stack of garments in her arms.
She smiled at Illara and waved her to the bed. Laying out a supple tunic, long sleeved and hooded of wool, and the boots now made to her size, lined with sheepskin. There were wool breeches, as well as soft flannel under garments.
“They’re wonderful.” Illara fingered them. They would be comfortable and warm on her skin.
“We’ve cut the leather and dyed it for more. A good leather cloak, and leggings for riding. Two of the maids have been making a fancy one, black with silk embroider. Mag, the oldest servant, has a fine eye; she’s cut patterns for a whole wardrobe.”
Illara turned and hugged her. “Thank you.”
“Nonsense. We need the challenge, and there is none in sewing male habbericks and sack gowns.”
Illara went to the trunks at the end of the bed and opened one. She withdrew a burnt orange scarf and under it the breeches and silk tunic her mother had worn, along with the five-foot sheer scarf Ysola wore over her head.
She laid them out and glanced up at Lylie. “My mother oft wore these, with a long stripe silk robe that reached her ankles.”
She extracted the leather slippers and lay them aside. Then further in, she found the combs she was looking for, they were set with jasper stones. “These were in her hair when she died.”
Lylie lifted her hem and sat down touching the garments but her eyes were on Illara. She said softly, “You miss her, don’t you?”
“Terribly.” Illara’s eyes burned and tears poised in them. “I was a sore trial to her. Always more my father’s son, than her daughter. Nevertheless, she had so many friends, so many women around her. She used to always be assisting in preparing young women for marriage. I day dreamed of riding off to some adventure whilst she talked about such things. Her mind was….diverse, in that she could speak well on intellectual and spiritual matters, and still take part in traditional things expected of women. With my father also, she was someone else—someone separate, young and passionate.”
“She sounds lovely.”
“She was. In beauty, too.” Illara wiped at the tears that rolled free though she was not sobbing, only cleansing some of the pain. She said, “My father was that way also. A hard warrior, huge and commanding, and quite devout despite those who disdained his marriage to my mother, who was a Christian though there are those who believe those of her culture, cannot be true Christians. I used to observe him with the men, and see why he survived the battles he had. He had a focus that was unbreakable. And yet with me, he was indulgent, patient, amusing, and protective, and still with Mother, he was a lover and companion, almost a playmate at times.”
She began to fold up the clothing and put it back, lingering with her hands on the combs in the trunk while she added, “I wasn’t alone, in the sense I became alone when they died. I don’t want to go back to that, Lylie.” She met the woman’s gaze. “I want to belong to someone, and be with them, and have their vision, and purpose, mean something to me. I do not want to wait for life to need me. I want to make myself useful and be passionate about something I’ve invested emotions in.”
Lylie reached out and took her hand. The woman’s was rough but warm. “Life has chosen you, Illara. The Master, Pagan, has. It and he has brought with it a dark and tragic, oft terrifying string of truths.”
She seemed to consider a moment then whispered, “You did not see it and cannot imagine it. We all carry the smells and sounds, the moment when music and gaiety and feasting turned to screams and cries, blood and violence. And, the afterward, when smoke hung over the castle and city, the forest reeking of death and pain—the day the lads were captured, and bound—forced to run behind the horses with their feet already bleeding and clothing in rags.
Before they ever reached London, there were those who held them over in castles on the way, and the things visited upon them—mere lads—would drive a sane person to beg for death. I was hiding, having lost my boys the year before, they were like my own children to me, they and their sister’s children. It does not matter to me how I got to London or what I did once there, but at my first sight of them I was surprised that any human could look so tortured and still breathe.”
She shook her head and dropped Illara’s hands, rising to stand by the window, opening it slightly, to the cold, as if she needed air in her lungs.
Lylie said, “Ladies Rebecca and Faith were wed to Guy de Lyndon and Simon of Rotherham. Pagan was in training to be Rotherham’s Squire, as Randulf was still young and in his studies, but allowed to learn some skills of war. Pagan however, was the one always followed by the little ones—he carried them about on his shoulders, and taught them games, and was their favorite.”
Illara felt her breathing grow shaky, her stomach churned. She braced herself for the rest.
Lylie spoke in reflection and pain, “Lord Eadwyn had called a feast to celebrate Faith’s having a son. She had had only girls, and her sister had all boys. They were of ages three on, and everyone in the castle and town celebrated. The Master doted on his grandchildren, as did Lady Anne. The music, the food, the halls and castle, even the grounds were decorated brightly. And... Oh, the bells, they rang from the chapel. The monks came from St. And
rews also. However, when late evening came and the place was filled with knights and soldiers, some disguised in colors of the noble guest, the attack happened.
Lady Faith, who was armed, as well as the Mistress and Rebecca, at some point, saw her husband fall. She screamed and begged Pagan to cease fighting, to find the children—to keep them hidden. He was torn clearly, and it was only when Ronan—now, Randulf was nearly killed, trying to fight also that he grabbed him by the scruff and did her bidding. I let them all down the back tunnels and bolted the doors. I knew they would come out in the woods, and hoped they would be safe.
None of us knew that a crier read charges against them in the square, nor that soldiers and knights would go mad with lust and violence and attack those poor townspeople. It was days, I lost track, but days of burning, death, hangings, and worse.
Pagan, thinking the children safe in a stone cottage that he and Randulf had obscured with branches and leaves, had returned to assist his family. He was spied and chased for miles. He and Randulf were near the woods when the flames burst out. He tried to get to them—to the children, but the fire was too consuming. Sometime in that period, he was captured with his brother.”
“My God.” Illara arose and sat on the trunk, her arms tight around her stomach.
Lylie drew a deep, unsteady breath and released it. She turned and said, “I’m not their confessor, but I know Pagan felt guilt beyond bearing. I also know from Randulf’s nightmares after they were free, that when they were tied neck to neck and beaten, Randulf did not want to fall and thus kill his own brother—which was what the punisher intended, and Pagan did not—would not, buckle, and do likewise.
Nevertheless, at some point, Randulf being the slighter lost consciousness. When he regained it, he thought he had killed Pagan, for the rope was embedding in Pagan’s his neck. I do not know how much Pagan protected his brother in the tower either, nor how much Randulf did to save Pagan torment. However, there is a bond there and it helped them survive.
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