Gayle Eden

by Illara's Champion

  “And Randulf?”

  “Aye. Him too. I go when he does. Pagan asked me to. If he e’re leaves, he says, you go with him. Aye, I says. I will.”

  She nodded and reached out her hand then waited for him to drop the axe. She took his, feeling strength there. “I pray for you both. And thank you, for your words.”

  He stared at her and then smiled. “‘Tis a rare one ye are, Illara. I thank ye for the praise.”

  She released his hand and turned to walk toward Pagan, striding around obstacles they used in training and seeing him toss the cup and straighten before she reached him.

  He was sweaty and muddy, but she met his gaze with a slight smile. “Where may I find Beroun?”

  “He’s busy. You’ve a mind to practice?”

  “Aye.”

  Pagan considered her in silence a moment. “I will send for your mount. You can follow along with the men, but do not strain or attempt anything to injury. You’ve earned the right to try.”

  “I won’t get in their way.”

  He nodded. There was an intimate message in his eyes, though Pagan said, “Sticks and wooden or hide shields this round. We’re going through the events and the melee.” He began walking and she fell in step. “In a melee, you have an equal number of combatants, riding toward each other, meeting, and fighting. There are no rules, save to live. If you are unhorsed you keep fighting.”

  She stared at the brawny men who had turned and were watching them. “I don’t wish to distract them.”

  “You will not.” Pagan signaled to a younger man, and when the male came forward, he called out for him to bring in another horse.

  He waved Randulf over.

  Her brother in law was as filthy as Pagan, and wore his leather half mask. His long hair was tied back and not braided, his clothing leather, and broadsword sheathed on his back.

  Before Pagan could say what he called him over for, Randulf reached her and leaned down—kissing her. He straightened from it and looked at his brother. “Before you take my head off. That was for saving your life.”

  “Try clasping her hand next time,” Pagan growled. “Her cheek would have sufficed, too.”

  Randulf grinned. “I will remember that...Mayhap.”

  Illara cut in, “You’re welcome. But, before you two come to blows. I wish to say that I am glad to see you again, Ronan—and now can we get on with indulging me. Pagan is going to allow me to train.”

  “With the men?”

  Pagan answered Randulf, “Aye. However, she is not to receive any hits, you tell them—

  “Pagan—”

  Pagan stared at Illara. “Not even a bruise.”

  She rolled her eyes. “There isn’t any point then.”

  “They are three times your size and several your bulk. They’re strength is such that one blow would knock you down.”

  “Very well.” She sighed and started walking toward the lad who had brought her horse, fitted with the taller saddle the guards used.

  * * * *

  Pagan and Randulf watched her mount.

  Randulf uttered, “She’s right. What is the purpose?”

  “It is her desire.” Pagan murmured, “There doesn’t need to be a point. I cannot deny her. Yet I can’t stand by and let her be harmed.”

  Randulf considered him sardonically. “I will put Colebane and William at her then. They will know what to do.”

  Pagan nodded and observed the men mounting up at Randulf’s command. Colebane and William were men of thirty some years, who had trained younger lads. This time, Pagan moved to lean against the wall and watch as his brother began the exercise. Illara had removed her cape, had taken the wooden shield, and blunted wooden sword.

  He scarcely paid any heed to the others. His gaze was fixed on her. She was the smallest and seemed even more so on the warhorse. However, she was expert at guiding it with her knees, staying seated at the faster pace and turns, and fluid in every movement.

  When the clash came, Pagan set his jaw teeth hard together, but got a surprise when she slipped through two attacks, wheeled, and knocked one of the largest guards off his horse. The men were laughing, even Randulf, and the knight on the ground was.

  Illara leaned over in the saddle and offered her hand to assist him up. The man thanked her and declined, getting to his feet and bowing to her.

  She was smiling. Soon they all went through the paces with as much humor as focus. The morning had been hard and ruthless, intense drilling, and Pagan supposed it was not so bad that men facing injury and death had one day of laughter. They were not laughing at her, rather at themselves as she was a slippery and quick target, and even those who tapped her got blows to their hard belly or shoulder.

  A few were calling out to her, encouraging, and pointing out targets, and Illara played along, as all the men did.

  Randulf looked back at Pagan. He was chuckling and shrugged. Pagan found himself smiling too, before the evening was over.

  It was nearly sunset. After the horses were taken, they went through drills. Pagan allowed her to do them also. She slipped and fell in the mud more than once, but held up her hand to ward off any help in getting to her feet. By the time they called a halt, his guards were talking to her, some looking at her sword, others handing her mead from their cask.

  Pagan walked around and gave a few orders, advice, and praise, where needed. He strode back as the others were leaving. His wife sat against the wall, drinking. Her face was as filthy as the rest of her.

  He reached down and pulled her up by her hand, and retained it while they strolled to the castle. It was then they both noticed how many of the children and craftsmen were climbing down off the walls, having watched the exercise that day.

  “Randulf and I have been eating at the Lord’s Table,” he informed watching one of the young boys and a blond haired girl doing mock combat with sticks in the yard.

  She glanced up at him. “Good. We must get bathed and changed, then.”

  Inside, in the bathing chamber, while she dropped each muddy garment and waited for the water to pool, he stood after pulling off his boots, gazing over her body in the candle glow. Even grimy and with her shorn hair mussed, she stirred him.

  Illara waded into the pool and submerged, while rubbing her face. She surfaced and slicked back her hair, her shoulders sparkling with water, breasts and ribs above the surface as she knelt.

  “If you join me. I will not turn around and look,” she promised and scooped up soap to lather.

  He first put out all but one candle, stripped and waded in. Standing behind her, Pagan watched her soap her hair and rinse, wash her arms and her torso, the foam sliding sensual and slow on her warm skin, down her spine.

  He turned, his back to her back, and peeled off the mask. He unbound his hair then sat in the water, lying back and under it next before rising and began his abolitions. His thick hair felt heavy against his neck. He washed his face and rinsed it.

  Pagan took a soft cloth and scrubbed his body, his sex full and aroused, his mind more conscious that Illara was nude behind him, than worrying about her not keeping her word.

  He propped his foot on the side tiles and scrubbed his inner thigh, and slowed his strokes remembering her mouth on him, the feel of her inner lips around the head of his sex. Water trickled, and the rasping sound of the cloth joined it. He swallowed thickly, replaying the feel of her lips and tongue, moist and velvety caresses, which had bathed over him—his flawed flesh. His heart beat insistent. Blood moved sultry under his skin, while he shifted legs and rubbed the cloth over his sack, and around it, down the inner thigh. By the time Pagan went to his knees to rinse, he was trembling.

  Head bowed and splashing water on his face, he smoothed his hair back roughly and took the ends to squeeze them free of water. When finished, Pagan arose and waded to the edge. His hands grasped it and he murmured in the silence, “Will you close your eyes?”

  “Aye.”

  He gradually turned his head to see her s
tanding in the water, her eyes closed. Swallowing nervously more than once, he turned and waded toward her. When he reached her, Pagan took her hands and put them on his sides. When he touched his mouth to hers, she seemed to know what he needed, or perhaps to taste it. By the time he lifted his head, her hand fisted his sex.

  She stroked him and whispered thickly, “Kiss me.”

  Pagan cupped her face, kissing her while his powerful legs trembled and her stroke of him grew firmer and faster. Her free hand came up and tangled in his hair with sexual roughness. He breathed heavy through his nose, his climax catching him by surprise.

  He broke the kiss and panted against her lips, “I did not—”

  “It was very exciting.” She eased her hand off him, and when Pagan released her, turned her back. “I will touch you any time you like, Pagan. I like the feel of you.”

  He closed his eyes a moment, and passed by her after cleaning himself, kissing her shoulder before he waded out and put on his mask.

  She exited the water and proceeded to the solar to dress.

  Pagan pulled on the clothing he had discarded the day before, and awaited her.

  Illara emerged in a low waist gown of cream silk that made her skin glow and brought out the lighter strands of her hair. Over her shorn locks she wore a sparkling net that fit from just behind her ears. The front of her hair was smoothed back.

  Pagan scanned visually over the shimmering garment, to her slippers, and back up to a face that grew more handsome, if possible. Her lips were salved and kissable, her eyes, as always, making him feel something unfathomable when he looked into them. He held out his hand. They descended the stairs.

  Randulf was already at the table.

  Chapter Eleven

  It would be another week and a half before Illara stood at the entry with Lylie, watching the first of many knights arrive and set up their tents. Pagan and Randulf, who openly invited everyone to use his name, Ronan, greeted each one. Merchants, others in trade took up residence in the city to sell goods. They would pay a rent fee and percentage to Pagan. Thus, there were as many wagons and animals as there were people.

  In her silk shirt and velvet tunic, leather breeches and boots, Illara still welcomed a weak sun that day. She had no idea who was friend or foe. She noticed though, that the servants were wearing black robes of richer cloth and red caps, and that Lylie’s gown yester eve and today was of puffed upper sleeve, round neck, low waist and in a bronze velvet and silk. Her hair she half covered in a gauzy matching cap, and the overall effect brought out her handsome bones and figure.

  She showed Illara the wings, now cleaned, and fireplaces laid with logs. Each chamber enriched with opulent bedding, vases, and carpets, furs and thick candles in scrolled holders. Quarters and apartments that belonged to the kin of Pagan and Ronan were once more aired and open, the doors wide to receive those whom the brothers would invite inside the castle.

  Stables had been cleaned. There was food both preserved and much baking. In the Great hall—all the shields from the tower now graced the walls along with banners and tapestries. The tables were lined first with crimson then white, and sprigs of spice and dried flowers warmed to the glow of candles lining down the center.

  Pagan had told her that priests and monks would attend too, thus the chapel was readied, its inner sanctums and hall lit day and night. With torches and candles; the vestments washed and pressed, and every candlestick and gold icon polished and placed in niches. The bell, which he told her had been cut down, was hefted, and replaced.

  Many of the men made midnight pilgrimages there and prayed, meditated. The font awaited water to be blessed. Nevertheless, it was hollowed to any knight or devout person for the cross that hung inside it, and she thought that the challenge or no, they were glad to have it opened, and to find a place to do their praying and chanting.

  She was witness to the first of these pious men, a young one who came to bless and anoint the city and castle, the chapel. Having lost some kin, he said, in the attack that took place.

  Today however it seemed to be a stream of impressive knights and their attendants, young pages, squires, and servants. They rode horses not of the size and build of their war steeds, and were dressed in velvets and silks. Many brought their women who strolled in the walled city below, among the merchants and booths. It did not escape their notice that few came to the castle, and most drew from the city well, instead of the available ones inside.

  “How many do you think are here as enemies?” Illara asked Lylie.

  “None, I hope.” The woman sighed. “I suppose the aristocracy and those officials will be arriving soon. ‘Tis a good thing we stocked the stores.”

  Illara nodded then confided, “I wrote everyone mentioned in my mother’s journals, and all that I could recall. As terrible as the situation is, I should like to have seen Sefare again. I don’t suppose—“

  Lylie had clutched her arm, and stopped her speech. She now pointed to the road and a large party. Three fore-riders with banners, and fully armed and armored knights were making two long rows as far as they could see.

  “Good Christ. Let it be someone friendly,” Illara breathed. “I am supposed to be under guard. You shall have to greet them. I will go where I can see better, and spy.”

  She hurried down the steps and across the yard, calling out to one of the guards she now knew by face. “Know you that insignia?”

  “Aye, milady. ’Tis the Baron Halcot. The Marshal.”

  Illara hurried back to inform Lylie, who alerted servants. She fetched her cape and pulled up her hood, then slipped down and into the courtyard, where she hoped to pass for a lad, as many were dressed likewise.

  There was much to do as the knights apparently stayed below while the main guard and officials proceeded. Pagan and Randulf entered through the gatehouse, with the party. Assigned squires went hurrying to assist with horses, while Illara watched a formal greeting between the brother’s and their guest.

  They spoke in French. She listened after the formalities, as the Marshal requested a private audience with both—she assumed to confirm rules and discuss details. She was able to study him as he faced her position. A cape of deep green and black hung from his broad shoulders, his clothing rich with gold latches, and his hair nearly white, and to his shoulders. His face was lined but bore the mark of nobility, and the eyes were intelligent, dark, and did not look as unyielding as a few she’d faced during the hearings.

  They turned, and he walked between the brothers up the stairs, his guards following.

  Illara leaned with a sigh against the wall, her hand to her stomach. It was getting ever closer and starker in reality now.

  A shout from above made her jump, and Illara turned to climb a platform behind the wall. She saw over the shifting of people and arrivals, another large party on the road. “Please,” she whispered, “Be friend and not foe.”

  The standard was black and gold. The foremost guards halted to allow a rider to move up to the front, once the city wall was passed. Toward the drawbridge, the rider, obviously a woman, rode a muscled gray steed, her fur cloak draped over its haunches.

  Just before the entry, she awaited four of the main riders who flanked her. She dropped her hood back just as she entered.

  Illara’s heart thundered. She would know that white blond hair anywhere. It was Sefare!

  She put herself before the last entry and as it opened, dropped her own hood back. Sefare saw her even before the horse stopped. She smiled hugely. Always a beauty, the woman’s aqua eyes shone with tears, though joy wreathed her face.

  “Countess…” one of the guard’s began.

  However, Sefare had dismounted and came running to her, embracing her and saying, “Illara! Dear heavens…Illara!”

  Illara had time to see the elaborate fashion of Sefare’s hair, a crown of braids and long flowing locks down her back. She returned the embrace and murmured, “Countess?”

  Her friend drew back and wiped her eyes with a
gloved hand. “Aye, but widowed.” She looked her over. “Look at you; you have not changed one bit.”

  “Look at you!” Illara blinked because the cape parted and there were jewels in the bodice of Sefare’s gown, a rich collar of rubies and diamonds. “I recall a time when you swore to never wear a gown.” She chuckled.

  “I still have a whole wardrobe of breeches and doublets. Do not worry.”

  Illara wiped a tear from her own eye and took her hands. “You came. How did you, so very swift? And I… I simply cannot believe you are here.”

  “Of course I came. You needed me. Your message caught me just as I was departing to come and find you. I had planned to, when my husband died, but there was such a mess with the properties. However I turned back in time to collect my army.”

  “Your army…” Illara shook her head.

  Her friend smiled and squeezed her hands. “I have brought you a hundred and fifty of my best knights. Will that do?”

  Laughing Illara hugged her again. “Aye. Yes it will.” She let her go. “I must let you go and rest. Make yourself known to Lylie. She made me write to you, and I am supposed to be under guard, but I will slip to your chambers, and I—” She bit her lip and stared at that beautiful face. “I cannot believe you are here.”

  Sefare shook her head. “Much happened in my life. All was not well, despite the riches I retained. My betrothed, if you will recall, was twenty years my senior, and for all my father was awed by his prowess and his title, he lived to be sorry I was wed to such a man.”

  “Oh...no. are your parents not alive, then?”

  “No. Only my brother lives, and I have not seen him in four years. My husband forbade it.”

  “How did he die? Your husband?”

  Sefare sighed. “In battle. As every knight aspires. I could not attend his burial. I was too marred from the beating he gave me when he departed.”

  “Sefare…” Illara felt sickened by that.