Gayle Eden

by Illara's Champion

  Her friend lifted her chin and drew a deep breath. “I’m free of him now. I have plans to live here, in England, if all goes well. But first, we must clear up this business.”

  As she headed toward the castle, Pagan exited, and Illara saw him for the first time since last eve. Pagan wore a black velvet doublet and silk shirt, leather breeches, and knee-high boots. His mask was black and studded—and she almost laughed at Sefare’s abrupt halt and back steps as he approached. He was after all, a towering and brawn laden man.

  She caught up with her friend and took her arm. “This is my husband,” she said loud enough for Pagan to hear. “Pagan, this is Countess…”

  “Call me Sefare,” her friend invited as soon as Pagan halted before them.

  Pagan bowed formally and glanced questioningly at Illara.

  “My friend. Remember, I spoke of her. She trained with me—”

  “Aye. Yes.” His brass eyes stared at the beautiful woman. Illara tried to see what Sefare did, all those things that frightened those who did not know him. However, she knew him so intimately, she hardly recalled those days.

  Her husband intoned, “It is good of you to come in support of my wife. Welcome to Dunnewicke Castle.”

  “I came in more than support, Sir.” Sefare smiled rather nervously. “I brought one hundred and fifty knights with me.”

  Illara caught the blink of surprise on Pagan’s face, before he glanced to her. She explained, “We made a pact once, when we were very young, that no matter what distance or time separated us, we would come with an army to help.”

  She laughed, still a bit amazed herself and took her friend’s hand again. “I had forgotten that, when I wrote to her. We were oft envious of knights and bemoaning that we could not become one. We had observed that some daughters and wives had armies at their disposal…”

  Pagan nodded and glanced to Sefare again. “I am humbled by your offer—”

  Illara knew that was truth, though it was hard for him to admit. She reached for his hand also and got to her tiptoes to kiss his jaw. He smiled and she glanced at her friend in time to see the surprise on Sefare’s face. It was apparently because of the comfort in which they touched—more likely, the affection— which Illara showed to a man who was feared and scarred.

  They exchanged a look, herself, and her friend, and Illara knew she communicated the depth of her feelings for Pagan.

  “I could gather several hundred more given time,” Sefare told Pagan.

  Pagan laughed, a rasping and low sound. “My thanks. But that number is sufficiently equal to the need.”

  Illara asked him, “Am I to be under guard? Have you spoken to the Marshal?”

  “Not under guard. But not to go beyond the castle walls.” He brought her hand to his lips then loosed it. “You may enjoy your reunion with your friend, and enjoy your place as Lady of Dunnewicke. We shall have many guests at the table this evening.” Pagan bowed again to Sefare. “Your presence is included.”

  “Thank you.”

  Pagan excused himself to go below to the camps. He called her guards forward and asked of her baggage, which was behind on a wagon. He directed the knights inside the great hall to refresh.

  Sefare said as they entered the castle, “Methinks you omitted a few details in your message.”

  Smiling, Illara confessed, “There wasn’t time to write more. I shall explain it all when you are settled.” She waved to Lylie, who was crossing the main hall. When the woman came over, she made the introduction.

  Curtsying Lylie sighed, “I’m so very glad you came, Countess—Madam—”

  Illara laughed. “Call her Sefare, or Madam. She’s a tale of her own to impart, I think.”

  The women were immediate friends, given that they both cared for Illara and given the situation.

  Lylie led the way to chambers set aside for Sefare, the closest to the Great hall but down a hallway. She excused herself, assuring Sefare’s belongings would be delivered soon.

  In the chambers, Sefare removed her cloak and revealed a gown that was indeed rich. She sat down on the window seat and opened the latch to press them wide, warning, “You had best sit down, Illara. I must tell you, my own life and future is in peril.”

  Illara sat.

  * * * *

  Night saw torches lit from the city to the castle grounds. Within the castle itself, an amber glow shone from the windows. Campfires and music wafted from tents and the city too. More parties arrived whilst Ronan, Pagan, and Illara hosted a lavish meal in the great hall.

  Dressed in a gown of crimson velvet with black chemise and having her hair in cap of black and crimson silk, Illara had added a gold link belt, low on her hips with rubies interspersed. She had taken care to match both Pagan and Ronan, as both were in rich leather and velvet. Her husband in black, and Randulf in that hue and crimson.

  Randulf, whom she would get used to calling by his real name Ronan, was also in that red leather mask.

  She had taken the time to explain it all to Sefare, who set across from him, in her light blue silk and diamonds, and was pleased that Sefare attempted to engage his conversation. Since everyone else at the table, other barons who arrived; two earls and the knights of some honor, seemed to either show hostility or fear.

  They were consuming vast amounts of wine and beer, she noted. Only the Marshal, who sat at her left, seemed to simply observe and relax with his meal.

  There was music and entertainers that Pagan invited from the city. Knights crowded the lower tables, and mingled with Dunnewicke guards. Illara saw no tension between them, although it did not keep her stomach from hurting through the long meal.

  Sometime deep in the night, Pagan leaned and murmured, “I have much to do, in the next few days, and we are not likely to retire at the same time.”

  She took his hand and murmured back, “I understand, but if you have a moment after the meal tomorrow, I need to speak to you on something of great importance.”

  “Go to the tower, and I will come to you as soon as I am able. Tonight—what is left of it, I must play both host and challenger, and ‘tis a role that requires me to keep track of who enters the castle. I trust few here.”

  “Nor do I.” She squeezed his hand again then arose and excused herself.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next eve, after a long supper, Illara tried waiting him in the tower room, but ended up outside of it, in her cloak and wool breeches, soft shirt and boots, watching the men who crowded the courtyard—and wondering that so many came. Praying that it was not all to draw blood and prove their guilt. The Marshal was apparently keeping record of arrivals, and even at his meal, he was preoccupied scribbling, and noting all new arrivals.

  She spied Pagan’s tall figure walking towards her, like herself, she supposed, he could pick her out in any disguise.

  “What is on your mind?” Pagan reached her, and drew her close to his chest, his back to the courtyard.

  “It is Sefare. She needs our aid.”

  He grunted. “We are in a poor position to assist anyone at the moment, Illara. But tell me the whole of it.”

  She slid her arms around his waist, comforted by his strength and body heat, his presence. “Sefare offered us her knights, aye—but they are hers only because of a dire situation. When her husband died, a Count Baiardo di Matteo, he was a cruel man some years her senior, who had beaten her regularly but always under her clothing with a rod, where none could see—except for the night before he died.

  He had beaten her so badly she was abed still when his body was returned. Sblood, Pagan. I can scarcely stand to think of it.”

  Pagan grunted in agreement and she went on, “But to get on with the telling, a younger uncle, Guardi, and the remainder of his family attempted to force her into a nunnery in order to control the holdings. She held out and was locked in her chambers. She has tried for a year to get word to her brother, Mshai, to no avail. There is a worry too concerning her dead husband’s feelings toward her brother
, who was born of her father’s mistress, a woman of Arab blood…But I’ve not time to go into it all. As a female, and chattel, she has little recourse but to submit. Many of the knights, who refused to swear fealty to this uncle, freed her. They gathered much from the stores that were her possessions, her inheritance, and helped her escape and she came here.

  She had intended to come here upon the opportunity to flee her husband a year ago. He discovered it and forbade her to send me word. He cut her off from any contact outside his family. Inside the castle, and to guests, she was pampered and wealthy, but it was sheer tyranny, Pagan. Her life was a nightmare.

  The worst is, she is sure her husband’s uncle is of enough influence to come after her, and force her to return. She says that though she has one-third of his properties as his widow, which has been offered by someone she trusts to purchase for monies. She also was endowed wealth by her father, which he desires. Moreover—she believes ‘tis her, that he wishes to own too.

  Sefare will refuse to the point of death, she says. She cannot go back there. These knights have pledged to her, and she in turn to them, to start over in this land. We must find a solution for her before the uncle does his worst…

  Pagan said nothing for a long while, then he sighed heavily, “Our own fate makes any future protections we offer uncertain, Illara.”

  When she shook her head, refusing to consider not helping at all, he offered cautiously, “I will put this before Ronan, and perhaps betwixt us, there will be some temporary solution, under the laws. Which will serve until the outcome of the duel is in reality. Until then, we cannot give our word where it made be voided—by our own exile or death.”

  She hugged him tighter. “Do not speak of death, please. You will prove them wrong. You and Ronan will be victorious. The Dunnewicke knights also. Even if my mind tries to whisper the risks and the worst, I shall keep saying that. I will not give death a hold, until our last breaths are drawing.”

  Pagan brushed his lips over her hair. “I too hope for some future, where I dared not before. There is much I would say, wife, and no time for it.”

  Pagan eased her back and cupped her face, tilting it up, his thumbs brushing her cheeks while his gaze moved like a caress over every inch of her visage. “Even though this event gives me the chance to absolve my family, and to cleanse my own soul, mayhap. It also keeps us apart, when we most desire each other.”

  She wanted him, needed him, and wished for every second of the day and night with him. Yet, Illara knew there were serious weights on his shoulders, aside from what he would face that day. “I want you to be prepared, and the men. And I feel as if what we have been given thus far, is a gift.”

  She reached for his kiss and Pagan gave it, soft and intimate, before he pulled back. Illara whispered, peering deep into his eyes, “We will find that moment before the…time comes, to touch once more.” She eased back further and said, “Send for me when you have spoken to Ronan. I want to relieve my friend’s mind with some hope.”

  “Aye.” Pagan nodded and stole one more long and deep kiss, before reluctantly letting her go.

  * * * *

  Illara got word through a young lad the next day, that Pagan was awaiting her behind the stables. She hurried there.

  He was obviously busy, armed, and having come from the training yard. Pagan said tersely, “Have your friend in the courtyard on the dawn. I would rather she explain the whole of it to us, and for Ronan to hear it. He has spent more time in Italy than I, and will perhaps know something. We will find some private place to converse. Although, there are few corners of Dunnewicke now, that does not have a tent or bed.”

  “Thank you—”

  “Do not thank me yet, Illara. I promise her nothing but a hearing.”

  She rushed to him and kissed him, then turned saying, “It is hope, and we know that is enough, in any dire situation.” She hurried to find Sefare.

  Pagan watched her go. And even with every muscle aching and every second of the day seeming like an eternity until he could finally face that moment with Ronan—until they could at last stand for the truth, he wished with all his soul that he was stripped to his scarred skin, making love to his wife.

  * * * *

  It was the only solution. A marriage.

  “Nay.” Ronan grit and stared at his brother.

  “It is all right, Sir. I understand that you do not—” Sefare began.

  “You understand nothing!” Ronan snarled at her.

  Chewing her lip, her hands clasped tightly, Illara chanced, “It does not have to be a….real marriage, 'tis only for her protection. When the Tourney is over—”

  “When the Tourney is over, and you all live, free of any charges,” Sefare cut in, despite having flinched at that snarl of Ronan’s. “We may think of another solution.”

  Pagan held Ronan’s gaze. “If the worst happens, you leave her a widow—an English widow.”

  “Of a traitor’s son—”

  “Christ’s toes!” Illara threw up her hands. “I had not thought on that.”

  “Nor on anything overmuch.” Her brother in law seared her with a gaze. “Even if I live and am free of the past, I wear it forever. Do you understand?”

  His hand gestured from his face to his body. “How can you not, understand? I want no woman tied to me—particularly one who looks like this one.”

  Unable to deny her beauty, the petite woman grimaced. “I am skilled and can fight—” Sefare raised her brows helpfully. “And…and if you wished to keep our marriage, we could live apart. Illara tells me you have several castles and manors and farms.”

  She drew a deep and steadying breath. “Please understand. After what he did to me. I want no husband in the normal way.” She shuddered. “It would please me well to not be owned and…used, by any man again. I will do anything you have need of a wife to do—or someone with my wealth and skills—whichever they be. I will not ask anything of you. If you wish, I will exist only on the official records.

  I cannot help that I was given beauty—it earned me nothing but the unwanted lust of those I abhorred. Certainly, my husband was not swayed from abusing me because of it. If I could find my brother…mayhap… However, there is no time for it. He has been missing since he went into battle over four years ago.”

  “God’s teeth.” Ronan turned and made as if to walk out. But after a few steps, he stopped. Though his back was stiff, he uttered a few more curses before snapping, “Arrange it if you can, for midnight. We have to pay fines for omitting the bans—”

  “I will pay them,” Sefare offered.

  “Aye you will,” he returned, and added, “Have yourself packed for leaving afterwards. I will send you someplace safe until the duel is over.”

  “But, I—”

  He spun on his heel to face her, those gray eyes chilly in his mask. “You have gained from me that which I would not give, and were I not facing death for the honor of my family, I still would not offer. If you are wise, you will not push me further, madam. As I am your protector and the answer to your future—I expect no argument when I make a request.”

  “Of course not.” Sefare swallowed nervously.

  He ordered coldly, “Disguise yourself well, as your guards will remain to fulfill their oath to fight on our side—you will be escorted by men of my choosing, who will draw no attention to themselves or you. Now, do you understand?”

  “Aye.”

  He must have witnessed the tremble in her, for he grit, “Cease that. I am not your former husband. I have never beaten a woman—nor intend to. If you have the skill you claim, and the metal my sister in law has spoken of, then summon it. I will have no woman cringing towards me, for any reason.”

  When he exited, Sefare looked at Illara. “I was not cringing because of his scars. Is that not what he meant? I was only—”

  Illara sighed. “'Tis no matter. He is right. You must see this through bravely. You must do as he says, for he is a man who knows how to protect those in his
charge. Pagan will speak to the priest?’ She glanced at her husband, who nodded. Then, said, “We will get you packed, and you can don a cape over your disguise. Trust Ronan with the right guard for you—we shall see each other again. I promise.”

  * * * *

  An elder priest reluctantly agreed to perform the ceremony, and with only two candles burning in the chapel—it was final. Pagan and Illara signed as witnesses, as did several of her knights. Pagan paid the priest a hefty sum.

  After witnessing the clandestine wedding, Sefare’s knights pledged fealty to Ronan, and stood on their word to remain at Dunnewicke for the Tourney, and to join Sefare later.

  Illara stood in the tunnels with her friend a mere hour after the ceremony. Ronan had departed as abrupt as he entered.

  Sefare was helped upon a nondescript palfrey. Two cloaked and hooded guards were on each side, baggage, and provisions tied on their horses and spare mount. They would take the tunnels to the woods, and then away, Ronan had explained. He did not even tell Sefare where he was sending her—only the guards.

  “Godspeed, and be safe.” Illara clasped her hands.

  “And you. All of you—come out of this alive and cleared, so that we may have that reunion we should have had years ago.”

  Illara felt tears in her eyes that matched those of Sefare. She let her hand slip free and stepped back. Far from the days of their carefree youth, she thought of how they were now, all these years later, facing such dire challenges in life. Here was the girl her father called his little star, a girl who had been doted on too and raised with freedom, only to be given to a nightmare. Now they were wed to brothers. Now they faced an uncertain future.

  “Until then.”

  A tear rolled free as Sefare nodded. She kneed the horse and was off through the tunnels.

  * * * *

  The day was upon them. All preparation physical and mental was over. A cock crowed and awakened Illara at dawn. She was not fogged by sleep but instantly aware that today was in the hands of God, and mercy from men could not be counted on.

  Illara dressed and went to break her fast.