He obviously read it. When he was finished, he skimmed his palm up and rubbed between her legs. Illara’s eyes opened to his dark shape. His hair down—Pagan was not masked. He was too much in shadow for her to see details, but she had felt the shape of his face bones and no matter the marred skin, he was beautiful to her... Her giant warrior with his long raven mane.
She opened herself, her legs, and sex to him. Her breathing heavy and sluggish as Pagan rubbed, slickened, and petted sensually at that nub. Tenderly he fingered her to a climax that relaxed every muscle—and nearly had her drifting off. By the time he carried her to bed, she was dozing. However, she heard him whisper as he kissed her brow. “I will have Lylie bring a covered tray up, for when you wake.”
She snuggled in the covers and murmured, “Did you hear me say—that I love you.”
His voice was hoarse, deep, as he replied, “Aye. I heard.”
Illara slipped into a dreamless slumber.
Chapter Thirteen
The Marshal set himself on Pagan’s left during the meal. It escaped no one’s notice that there were fewer at the table, as well as fewer knights at the lower ones.
However, after they had eaten, the Marshal, who had been silent and serious at his business mostly, sat back and stared at Pagan.
“Stroth paid me a private visit. He insisted that the melee be declared void because word spread that your wife, and a female, participated. His humiliation at fighting on the field with a woman aside.” The older man grunted. “He was also met afterwards, with those knights of the Baron’s castle—withdrawing and declaring themselves satisfied on the question of murder or defense. I understand they have taken themselves off and out of England for a spell.”
The man stared at Ronan, next, down at his wine goblet in thought. “I explained to Stroth, that even if the melee were declared void, it did not change the events on the morrow. He will still face Pagan on the field—and win or lose.”
Pagan asked, “Where does that leave Ronan?”
The Marshal looked between the two, and then settled his gaze on Pagan again. “Ronan has no direct challenger. We have the right to name a champion, in a case where the accused cannot defend himself. However, this is not the case. I kept count of his prowess today, and over half eliminated were from his sword. I went to each man who was still able and without wounds to give the option—of facing him on the field. They have each withdrawn and acceded his victory.”
Pagan stared at his brother. “Hence, no matter what the outcome, on the morrow, he is clear?”
“Aye. His properties, and name, and the rest.”
Pagan nodded and turned back to the Marshal. “Stroth is a hot headed man, burning with the guilt he himself created when he betrayed my father. He will not be satisfied with mere points on the field, nor will he let it end.”
“If you best him, it matters not what he thinks.” The Marshal met his gaze. “He’s to be exiled. You will gain his forfeited lands.”
“I do not want them.”
The king’s man smiled and arched his brow. “When all is settled and restored, you will be expected not only to revive the city, but to train knights, and see the ceremony done for your own. Perhaps reward your best men with a farm or manor? Do not let your pride short sight you, Pagan. If your father were here, he would tell you the same. In some ways your life has been at a standstill, but your rightful place, if restored, carries with it all the expected duties, and responsibilities that a lone knight roaming the Tourneys escapes.”
“I will think on your words.” Pagan nodded then lifted his cup and drank, saying as his lips touched it, “—after the morrow.”
* * * *
Wakening before daylight, Illara heard about the changes from Lylie, whom she sought out after dressing and eating the food placed in her room the evening before.
She felt heavy armed, and her legs were not much better. She donned breeches and tunic, a light cape, and a plain doeskin cap before she sat in the bustling kitchens, watching Lylie mix some herbs for the men who were treating wounds.
Her hands cupped around a silver goblet of warm mead, Illara murmured, “This will be difficult for Ronan. Although he accounted himself with skill and conquered, I know how close he is to Pagan, how much this fight for justice means to them.”
Lylie wiped her hands on her apron, and called one of the younger girls to take the mixture to the barracks. She nodded for Illara to follow her outside. They sat in the rear courtyard, seeing the signs of spring stubbornly trying to show it in the budding trees and bushes, the dried garden that needed turned and tended.
“I’ve thought of that too, and when he sits at your side today, perhaps he will be able to understand that he too has sacrificed and earned what he has won.” The woman tucked a strand of hair back into her cap. “Though he will be a lord, Ronan is ever a knight. I cannot help but think how proud their parent’s would be of them. How humbled Eadwyn would be at their bravery, their struggles, and their deep love and bond.”
Illara nodded. “Pray for Pagan today.”
“We all have. Each of us spent an hour with the priests.” She added, “It makes a difference that the Marshal will govern the combat. I doubt Stroth, like his compatriots, ever adhered to rules. He is a foolish man, but it will take more than his raving and threats to affect the Baron, a man who stands for the king himself. “
“Aye.” Illara stood. “I’d best go and find my place in the gallery.”
They embraced.
While Illara walked to the crowded stands once more, she saw the preparations for the tilt to go forward, and nodded to the men on the field. There were eyes on her too, and eyes on Ronan, who showed up a bit later, seating himself beside her and wearing plain garb and a mask, but a broach, which bore the family coat of arms.
As before, there was the formal procedure and speeches. The Marshal and a crier taking up an hour until the sun hung overhead. The crowd stirred as Pagan appeared in his armor and Stroth likewise. There were men standing on Pagan’s side, and none but a plain clothed man on that of Stroth.
“Do you want to stand on your brother’s side?”
Ronan glanced at her. “He asked me not to. He gave me charge over you.”
She felt her stomach tighten, meaning if he died—she shook her head and replied, “God would not wish both myself and Sefare on you.” She made herself smile.
He grunted at the mention of that wife, and it occurred to Illara that he would certainly have to deal with having wed when all was finished. However, he muttered, “If anything happens, I’m going to challenge Stroth, and keep challenging until he’s dead and rotting.”
Illara took his hand. “Pagan is champion at this. He will win.”
“Aye. He will.”
The men were given six lances each, weapons that were not blunted and that were inspected by four men of the Baron’s choosing. Neutral, Illara gathered, watching them line on opposite sides for the first pass.
The fact that they were not blunted frightened her more than she could articulate. On the first pass, she was holding to Ronan’s hand as tightly as he was hers.
Stroth gained a hit that dented the shoulder plate on Pagan. The crowd was thunderous and heckling, but quieted on the second pass. Pagan got a hit, a blow that rocked Stroth and took the tip of Pagan’s lance.
The third had Illara on her feet, her brother in law too—for the lances struck and shattered and both knights were even scored.
“He knows what he is doing.”
She did not spare a glance for Ronan who said it. The fourth came and Pagan struck a blow that centered on Stroth’s chest. The breastplate curved inward and the knight lost his hold on his lance and leaned forward.
There were tense moments after Pagan rode back to his point, and men rushed to Stroth. One could tell that once he straightened and caught his breath, the knight was furious. He kicked out at one of the men, earning a reprimand from the Marshal, but was too angry to care.
&nb
sp; Illara knew when he took up the lance and began, he wanted to kill Pagan.
Pagan apparently discerned it too, for he seemed to expect the high aimed blow that tore the visor from his helm. The crowd was screaming curses at Stroth, but the man was in his own rage-filled haze. Pagan shook his head as one of the guards offered him another helm. He took up his lance and nodded toward the judges.
The fifth seemed a blur of fury, the horses faster and the blows landing harder, an equal hit that lifted the challengers half out of the saddle and left the lances splintered.
The final pass had everyone on edge. Chargers foamed at the bit, blowing hot breaths and snorting. The crowds were silent, eerily so, and Illara held her breath, her chanted prayers, tense muscles, and pounding heart taking her out of her body. Please, please…
The knights rode toward each other, and almost at contact, it appeared as if Stroth’s lance was going straight for Pagan’s heart. To Illara that tip seemed sharper, lethal, and deadly—though it was the same used throughout, more sinister. Pagan turned in a split second move, and allowed the hit to skim a deep crease across his breastplate.
For a moment, no one knew what else occurred, until Stroth dropped like a dead weight from his horse. Pagan’s lance was in his side.
The Marshal held up his hand and prevented anyone from taking the field in assistance. He knelt by the knight and was speaking, then pulled off his helm.
Illara pressed her hands to her churning stomach.
The Marshal stood and shook his head. A sound, half gasp, half awe, came from the spectators.
The crier ran to the Marshal and spoke, then to Pagan. He took the charger by the bit and led him into the center.
The king’s man came aside and called out, “Hail the victor, the innocent, Thorel of Dunnewicke, Pagan de Chevel!”
Crying and nearly tearing Ronan’s arm off. Illara jumped up and down to the cheers and stomping feet of the crowds. Then she was swept up in her brother in law’s arms for a crushing embrace. They went running down, jumping the wall and running for Pagan.
He was dragged off his horse by his brother first, who hugged him and took the helm off him, embracing him tighter. When he loosed him, amid the shouts and cries, the Marshal came to Pagan and handed him a scroll with the king’s seal. It absolved his family of treason, fully cleared were they all—of any crimes against the crown.
Illara was finally able to meet Pagan’s gaze, as he asked the Marshal, “When was this drawn up?”
“It has been before the king in some form for many years—since I saw both you and Ronan on the field the first time in France—I knew whom you were.”
The man glanced between them. “I wanted to say what your father and my dear friend would have. You will always have enemies, and never more than when you are champion—and rewarded with much wealth. Eadwyn’s happiness with his family and pride in it, made him somewhat forget how fickle friendship is. He was Lord here, and no more knight, but he and all of his family, died no less bravely. Not a one, in their own way.”
He stepped back and bowed to them, then kissed Illara’s hand. His smile bloomed and it transformed what had been until then a serious visage. “To you, dear Lady, I offer praise for your spirit. Not since Lady Anne defied her father’s commands to wed me, and climbed out of the tower and rode some hundred miles, on our wedding day—to come to Eadwyn, have I heard of such bravery, and such love. She defied even the king, who could not settle the matter betwixt us, for Eadwyn loved her, but refused to fight me for her. I would neither fight him, and was in a hard place wishing him to have the woman he loved. You are much like her. It is fitting.”
When he turned and exited, leaving the field completely, Pagan took Illara and sat her on his horse. They stood a moment, his hand on Ronan’s shoulder, watching the litter carry a dead knight away.
“He made me kill him,” Pagan said low.
Illara glanced at him, and at Ronan, who had nodded. She supposed in their experience, Pagan had known what to do, his only choice, and Ronan had seen that split second move and understood it.
Afterwards they turned away, and Pagan, leading his horse with her seated atop it, headed for the castle.
The missals hurled at them now were flowers and other harmless objects. Illara chuckled as she recalled a much different reception not so long ago. However, she did note that no one still got too close to Pagan, even to give praise and well wishes.
She parted with the brothers at the entrance.
Tonight would be a celebration and feasting, and even when she stood on the entry landing, she noticed that all of those guests, who had not passed the gatehouse before, were coming into the castle to share it.
Illara headed up to bathe and dress in her best, to later be seated at her Lord’s Table and share in the salute.
First, she wept.
Upon reaching the solar, Illara fell to her knees, and with her arms across her mother’s trunk, she wept in thankfulness, that her husband was alive, that the darkest part of his life was over.
* * * *
Flutes, drums, timbrals, and laughter overflowed the great hall. Wine, mead, and giddiness, along with pride in their master, reined, so that even Dunnewicke servants were dancing between tables.
Some of Dunnewicke and Sefare’s knights on stick crutches, and a few with bandaged heads and arms were not about to be left out of celebrating. Outside, in every corner of the courtyards, and down the walls, torches burned and knights mingled, sang, and drank toasts.
Illara dressed in her green velvet gown and jeweled cap and sat to Pagan’s right, Ronan on his left. The Marshal was packed to depart, but was persuaded to stay for the meal.
Pagan told Illara of that packet given him upon the Baron’s arrival. It was the new town charter. At the best of timing--since many guests had approached, and requested to settle and rebuild in Dunnewicke.
Illara saw Lylie talking with seven women who would settle with their husbands, knights and guards, who would take up the bigger homes, merchant houses that had been abandoned. Nevertheless, merchants too were interested in moving there, or using it for yearly trade, for it would be a good place for a market before one reached the northern fairs.
She drank it all in and visually found the shield that belonged to the previous lord hanging on the walls. It must have been like this often in Dunnewicke, the music, food and laughter, and it must have been like this—the day everything was ripped from them.
Illara felt Pagan take her hand. Glancing at him, she noted his eyes had followed hers. She leaned over to murmur, “They are here now, sharing the joy and celebration. Do you feel them?”
He nodded. “Aye. I felt them in the tower. And, for the first time, felt them follow me out, to here, this great hall—then vanish.”
Illara had a feeling he endeavored to not be overwhelmed by all that was restored him. And, Ronan too who had a future that impulsively had put Sefare in his world.
She, more than most, observed how these men struggled with their marred bodies—with intimacy, and Sefare knew nothing of what he’d suffered really. She supposed it was much easier to deal with her because she had earned his trust. However, aside from what he had gained, there was much privately he was empty of. She did not know if the nightmares would ever stop for Ronan.
When the Lord’s Table was almost empty, and the Marshal seen off, Pagan and Illara went above to the solar. Sitting for a moment on the window seat, they observed a calm night, hearing the sounds of life and joy in every corner of the castle.
Pagan arose at some point, drawing her up with him, before he turned her and began unlatching the gown, little by little stripping it down her body.
He saw to her hose and shoes. Setting her on the bed afterwards, he pulled the tunic over his head, his brass hued eyes going over her like a lover’s touch.
“My Champion,” she whispered and smiled as Pagan leaned over, forcing her to recline. Her hands came up and unbound his hair, sifting her fingers thr
ough it while he braced his weight on his forearms. Her legs dangling off the bed, his between them. The leather of his breeches too supple to hide his rigid sex.
“I would never have come to this day, had it not been for you.” His lips brushed hers and skimmed over her cheek, her nose, and forehead. “I thought this dawn, would I even be—would I feel all that I do—had you not touched me?”
Illara gave him the kiss Pagan sought next, feeling both possessiveness and passion in the delving of his tongue that ravaged every inch of space inside, and in the movements of his head while he sought to steal her very breath, yet give her his.
When he lifted his head, Pagan began a journey down her body, his hands, and mouth bathing her with strokes of pleasurable passion.
She arched and moved into his touch. “I love you. With all of me—I love you.”
He made a sound in his throat and rose to discard boots and breeches. Pagan shifted her up in the bed. His warm strength settled between her legs, his silken burning skin, and flexing muscle rippling with sensitivity.
He cupped her face, his gaze intense as he rasped, “I love you, Illara. God’s mercy—I never thought to feel it. Would not dream of it in manhood, and even then, could not know what such a thing would feel like.
His thumb brushed her lower lip. “It is lust, possessiveness, pride, and hunger. It is wanting you, needing to see and touch, and taste you. It is that laughter and smile that sun you shine upon me. The courage—that is greater than your frame and your sex. It’s a soul that I can’t touch, but try to, in your breath, essence, and deepest passions.”
Tears ran from her eyes as Pagan finished, “When your father spoke of you, I amid the camp of knights listening, both craved and shuddered. For such a one deserved beauty, light, and joy. And I had neither.”
Illara ran her hands up his back, feeling the scars and welts, the ridges. She rested her hands upon the worst, her eyes holding his. That he knew her, that her father spoke of her to him—and Pagan carried her in his mind, was amazing to her.
“I was born for you, and you survived for me. In your arms, I am free. Your body brings to me all the passion and beauty of your soul, just as your eyes speak a language of their own. You made me believe in all that I had forgotten before.”
Gayle Eden Page 19