Chapter Six
She had no more time with him before they departed.
There was much to do and little time to prepare because of the change in plan. Illara helped the women sew her wardrobe, and on off time, she fitted a hidden sheathe into her leather cloak.
Her trunks were packed, her body garbed in the wool breeches and warm tunic, and the leggings, which would protect her further on horseback. She noted as she entered the yard that dawn, that Randulf wore a rich black cloak and that his warhorse was a pure white. The saddle, bridle, and blanket were all splendid, decorated crimson and black.
As she passed by him, looking up as he glanced down, she saw he wore a red mask that had a U shape cut out for his lips and chin, a vented ridge over his nose, and it was made from some kind of padded metal with swirls and markings around his eyes. He seemed fierce and also intimidating—even his eyes were colder.
She looked away and went to hand a satchel up to Beroun, who drove the team. The cooks apparently loved him, and had prepared sweets for his journey.
Dressed in black and a red cloak, a hooded tunic and richer boots, his handsome face appeared rather smug as he said, “I may save you one, my lady.”
She laughed. “I doubt it. Mag said that though you are smaller than most men, you have hollow legs—she vows you eat more than a man twice your size.”
They were laughing when a deep snort sounded, and Illara knew it was Pagan’s warhorse, the beast had the devils own arrogance. Indeed her husband rode toward them, his shroud in place, and that destrier, having a studded black bridle and saddle, a full blanket edged in red and its coat polished to a high shine.
She peered up into the hood, musing how frightening she had thought him, and still seeing why most would.
“Do you need a leg up?”
“No.”
His dry tone reminded her she was not seated on her horse and ready. She went to it, bounded from her feet, and pulled herself into the saddle. Gathering the reins, she reached to adjust the sword across her back, and pulled her hood up.
Pagan moved so that she was between himself and Randulf, and they were off, the wagon rumbling behind.
Illara was to learn in the coming hours, that winter travel was cold and when it drizzled, wet, and as the wind howled, miserable. They made speed and let the wagon set its own pace. Illara, aware that both men could have made better time without her.
She heard the mutterings at nightfall about camp, and was not surprised when it turned out to be a spot in the woods with the three of them sharing a lean to. The next day was not much better, and until they reached the first village, few words passed between them.
It was Pagan’s intent to skip one of the Tourneys and he told her that Baron Ryngild’s castle lay east. She scarcely cared which direction they went in after being pelted with stones through the village, and nearly being unseated when one struck her horse.
It was four or perhaps five days before the weather calmed and though muddy, they at least set camp in a clearing and dismounted. The horses were seen to. She took off her cloak and hung it on a branch. Figuring Beroun would be a few hours behind with the supplies, after seeking privacy Illara walked a ways from the brothers, who were attending their horses. It was a clear and still night after the constant fluctuation of drizzle, rain, deluge, and more rain. She needed to walk and when Beroun arrived, she cared more about getting her clothing dry than eating.
She turned at the snap of a twig, seeing Pagan before he was handing her a wine skin. She unplugged it and drank deep then handed it back.
“Are you well?”
“Aye.”
His eyes went over her. She knew her hair was mussed, her face chaffed, and she would salve her lips, having learned the hard way what the wind could do. Her clothing was damp and stretched.
“Clean your weapons tonight.”
“I will.”
He lifted a gloved hand and touched her cheek before turning back to the clearing.
Illara walked around it, swinging her arms and watching her breath puff out. They’d found enough twigs and moss to start a fire, and the horses were well sheltered. She was heading back toward them when the team came at a fast clip, mud splashed and dirty, but a welcome site. She quickened her pace.
At the camp, Randulf and Pagan helped with the team. She also made herself useful, accomplishing whatever Randulf delighted in telling her to. As tired as she was, Illara chuckled at his commands—it was obvious he was having fun with her, and seeing how good her word was.
“She’s tired—” Pagan began when Randulf told her to put one of the benches by the fire.
“I am well,” she called back and did so. While the brothers growled at each other, she helped lay out food and place the mead by the flames. Next she waited until Beroun had a canopy erected from the side of the wagon, and found herself dry clothing. Illara leaned over and called to the men in general that a bit of privacy was required.
They went to tend the horses—again.
Shivering, she stripped down and unloaded her boots of weapons, then pulled on flannel, leather, waterproofed breeches, and a tunic over her shirt. She combed her hair, braided it, and tucked it under before she salved her lips. Illara put on her dry boots, turning the lining out of the others and carried them to the fire. The men had also spread cloaks to dry.
Going back for her daggers and sword, she carried the cloth and oil to the fire, and then sat on a three-legged stool and cleaned them.
Beroun returned and grabbed up a chunk of bread before digging for clothing himself and vanishing. She stared up as Pagan and his brother returned, apparently wise enough to eat first, they were half way through before Pagan was before her, reaching her a cup of warm mead.
She took it.
“Eat.”
“I will.” She sipped and then slid the weapons in their coverings, one dagger in each boot. Her sword she lay across her thighs in its sheath. Illara watched Pagan cut a lump of cheese and skim off from the smoked meat. He brought it to her.
“I would have eaten.”
He grunted and went to the wagon. She saw him walk out into the dark.
Randulf exited when Pagan returned.
“Sleep in the wagon,” Pagan instructed. “We have our bedding.”
Illara groaned when she arose and walked to him, gazing up and whispering, “Kiss me good night. It may help me forget my arse is black and blue.”
Pagan laughed in that rasping way. His hands were bare when he cupped her cheeks. Leaning down he kissed her carefully, his gaze when he rose telling her that anything more than that was too tempting.
She smiled wryly and found her way to the wagon, shoving things aside enough to fit her body in. She was asleep in seconds.
The morning was thick with fog, but devoid of rain, thankfully. They broke camp quickly and were on their way again. The routine did not vary much after that, save there was a bit humor now and then, to relieve the tedium, particularly when Illara muttered about men being able to piss standing up, and she had to go to all sorts of trouble.
At one village outskirt, they made use of a half-fallen barn, musky and rather cozy, it was a good place to pamper the horses and rest before the next leg.
Having pulled the wagon behind it, Randulf and Beroun seemed to take one side of the structure, and give Illara and Pagan the other. After filling their bellies, Randulf rolled in a fur. Beroun whistled softly and lay on his back on a stretch of hide, apparently day dreaming.
Illara was seated on the packed earth, back propped against the wall, legs out and slightly leaning toward Pagan, who lazed as she did. They were dry and tired.
“How much further?”
“To Ryngild?”
She glanced at him and nodded.
“Two days. There are two villages and a good sized township around it.”
Illara sensed all day that Pagan was mentally somewhere else. She looked away and asked next, “Afterwards?”
“We c
an make the London fair.”
“Or?”
She felt him shrug. “We can travel to Thresford. Randulf is off after Ryngild. He’s a holding that he needs to look into.”
“Will he live in any of those castles?”
“All are not, some are farms and manors, not fortresses. But, aye, I imagine that he will choose Fawston.”
“Why is that?”
“’Tis the biggest, and most defensible. If he’s to finish his own intentions, he will have to find a good Bailiff and men to hire. I doubt he will keep all the lands he has accumulated. It is coming to the time when many knights and mercenaries can afford to settle, and fewer seek war in foreign lands.
There is always combat somewhere, for a knight to earn his spurs or find his glory, and paid mercenaries are abundant. Our king will engage in war sooner than not. But what we gained from leaving England was an awakening that our own holdings need tending.”
She nodded and sighed. “It would be nice to see Dunnewicke rebuilt and thriving.”
“It would.”
“But if it never is a town again. We will still make the castle and lands what they were.”
“Aye—perhaps.”
“We will.” She leaned more toward him and yawned. “Is it accounted as distracting if I sleep near you?”
”Aye,” Pagan said gruffly. “But consider it a boon for tonight.” His arm went round her, pulling her more to his chest.
Illara rolled to her side and against him, her head on that warm surface. “Just for tonight.” She drifted off to sleep.
Pagan held her and went over in his head all the times he had seen Ryngild joust. He had studied him and was sure he knew the man’s flaws. Two of the Knights, Mellore and Sir Auther would also be on the list. There remained only Stroth, whom he assumed had gone north for a richer prize.
Pagan felt Illara shift against him, closer to him, and wondered that he mentioned taking her to Thresford. He had planned to do that in the spring. Yet, Randulf had surprised him by saying on their journey, that he would leave them for Fawston Castle. Although Pagan realized his brother needed to be about his future, and needed to assess what he did hold, and find trustworthy men—it was still difficult to imagine that they would be months apart. They had always been together.
His eyes shifted to the figure rolled in fur. Pagan had found Randulf watching Illara almost as much as he did. He noticed the thawing, even humor, between them. It took some observing for him to realize that she and Randulf had their own bargain. He gave her tasks and she did them, and after trying to step in a time or two, Pagan realized it was more a sport between them.
Once, on the journey, she had been brushing her hair, the texture rippled from her braids. The firelight glimmered on the mixed strands and he’d felt such a hunger for her, such a surge of need, that he had to walk a space away. Pagan had sat there, before her brushing, eating, and eyeing the curve of her jaw, the slim throat when she swallowed, and nearly groaned as she bit into an apple and laved juice from her lips.
He had returned to find her talking to Randulf whilst she braided her hair, and sat watching more his brother’s face, as she spoke of her parents, and of the love between them.
He, above all, knew how impossible it was to consider anything intimate when one was so flawed as to have to stay covered. It was some twist of fate, not forethought that gave him a wife, and certainly, he had dreaded any consummation. Though she lessened some of his anxieties by her own passion and responses, Pagan still could not unveil himself before her.
He knew almost what his brother was thinking—and he remembered the lies they told each other when the fear and horror perhaps seeing their reflections, came to mind.
For all that he wished for his former looks, Pagan wished more that he could have saved Randulf from sharing his scars. If he had left him behind—hid him somewhere else—if—a hundred of those ifs went through his mind. Pagan had not thought on love or imagined any future normalcy. He knew that Randulf did not, would not, dream of it.
However, for moment as Illara talked, he thought he saw a deeper longing in Randulf’s eyes.
Now of course, Pagan worried that perhaps Randulf’s abrupt decision was because of Illara. Because of things she represented, and perhaps promised to himself if he chose to take it. It was a difficult thing, being so intimately aware of his brother’s thoughts because of shared horror and pain, and present circumstances.
Pagan finally eased up and adjusted so that he could lay on the spread furs and Illara half across him. He held her with his arms around her, her leg over his, her sweet breath fanning over the thin linen shirt at his chest. Pagan had an enemy to unseat and two knights to best, in three days of events. He needed sleep. He found it soon, his body relaxing with the rhythm of her breathing.
Sometime in the night, Illara’s eyes opened and she sat slightly up, hearing eerie cries and thrashing. She glanced toward the shadows, but Pagan cupped her head and brought her down, murmuring in her ear, “It is Randulf’s nightmares. All will be well.”
She lay there, realizing Pagan cupped his hand over her ear deliberately, and though his heart beat in the other, it beat stronger and faster, as if he felt some invisible connection to what was happening to his brother. Without thinking, Illara began to soothe her hand over his chest. She felt terrible for Randulf, wanted to comfort him, but knew she could not. Nevertheless, her beast was hurting also, and him she could soothe. She fell asleep that way, her hand stroking and consoling him.
Chapter Seven
Much work came before entering Ryngild. Fortunately, for them, they found a place to prepare, another derelict stable, a mile from the castle and before the main township.
The warhorses were groomed and polished, splendid blankets and headpieces fitted on them. The brothers bathed and shaved whilst Illara sat on the wagon behind the stable. Beroun helped them dress in mail and armor, preparing for a grand entrance. Illara had her own to see to, but she waited her turn, realizing upon rising that both men were grim and quiet, their minds already on the Tourney grounds.
A weak winter sun was struggling through when Beroun emerged and told her, “You may have your turn.” He too was dressed in colors, black with a red cloak, a leather round cap on his curls. He was not allowed to wear a sword inside the Tourney field. But would take part in a pre-main events Vespers Tourney: A Tourney held on the eve of the larger, where the younger knight’s bachelor and squires had an occasion to exhibit their prowess, before the other knights, and assembled gallery a béhourd, using blunted, ash or whalebone weapons and modified armor.
She gathered her things and entered, seeing that they had refilled the pails from the well, which thankfully still held water. They were across the main road with their horses. Through the slats, she could make out the glimmering crimson of Randulf’s armor, and the black of Pagan’s.
Her emotions surged thinking of the two brothers—where they had been—how they had survived—and now, they would arrive as the envied champions, privately prepared to face men who had devastated their lives. Though she wanted them to have their satisfaction, she silently hoped that it would also signify the beginning of life and living for them both.
Illara stripped and washed her body, standing on the square of hide. She cleaned her hair and rubbed her body with jasmine oil. Opening the trunk, she located the chemise of red silk and slipped it over her head. The gown of rich embroidered black was snug sleeved and form fitting to the low waist. The skirt was split in panels to reveal the chemise, just as the neck laced with gold chain, so that the vivid red peaked through. The tight sleeves were divided from wrist to elbow for the same effect, and the boots made of dyed suede. She slipped the daggers into them.
Afterwards, she extracted the rippling silk cape, which hooked on with gold and ruby latches at the shoulders of her gown. The lining was crimson.
Propping the mirror up, she began to braid her hair, crowning her head with them, and leaving some unbraided at
the back to lay straight down. Into the braids around her head, she fit jeweled pens, their gold setting enhancing the twinkle of jasper, emerald, ruby, and onyx.
Illara stared at herself, seeing for perhaps the first time some beauty there, some regalness that might make her intent a success. She touched her fingers down her slim throat and to the bodice of the gown, and then met her gaze again. “You are the wife of Pagan de Chevel. You are the wife of a great knight, and a brave--very brave, man.”
She sighed, put the mirror down, and the belt she latched low on her hips, fashioned in rings of gold with one long piece that resembled a spill of precious stones. She gathered her clothing and opened the crooked back door.
“Sblood!” Beroun nearly fell from the wagon where he was packing it.
Nervously she asked, “Did I do well?”
He stared at her wide-eyed. “Well, milady, if men don’t fall at your feet and women gnash their teeth in envy, I’m not a bastard.”
She laughed and flushed a little, reaching her things up to him and then pulling on her gloves. “I suppose I should join the men.”
“I’ve everything in hand. Your horse is ready. Pagan saw to it.”
She picked up her hem and went back through, her heart racing and breathing too shallow as she exited. The sun chose that moment to mist down, and Illara stood a bit outside the door adjusting her eyes to the light. When she could see the large warriors standing across in front of the horses, she slowly walked toward them.
* * * *
“By the blood,” Pagan heard Randulf whisper as they spied Illara. Nevertheless, he could not find his own breath, let alone his voice.
The sun suffused upon the richness of her gown and cape, that silk fluttering behind with every step. In her hair and around her head, there was a halo of sparkling hues. Tiny strands of sunlight-filtered hair floated near her brow and cheeks. As she came closer, the honey hue of her skin glistened like dew.
Gayle Eden Page 10