She waited patiently, her hands wrapped around the stone flask.
“It must be a tonic made from gold, or an infusion of rubies,” he remarked.
As expected, her brows drew down in confusion. Here, where no one would see but her, he allowed his amusement to show. Ever was she serious, straightforward, disinclined to humor. He reached out and touched the flask where it rested between her breasts, and stepped closer.
He felt her respond to his nearness, how her body rose to his, like a wave from the sea. Already her breath came more quickly, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts obscuring his original intent in bringing her here. He had meant to speak to her about some unimportant detail. It was something about men, and swordplay. But it seemed impossible that she would know such things, that she had ever been anything but this soft and willing creature.
She pushed the flask into his hands suddenly, lowering her eyes and taking a step back. He was left holding the thing, heavier than he had thought it might be.
“A mouthful only, taken when you wake each morning,” she said.
He looked at the flask in surprise. “For me?”
She inclined her head. “It gives untroubled sleep,” she said simply.
He was glad of the cool stone in his hands, absorbing the sudden heat that rose from his palms. Had anyone else said it, he would only be confused. But it was her, the angel from his fever dream, who had held a cup to his mouth and commanded him to drink. Now she stood before him, the white veil falling around her face and her gray eyes that saw through him, and called his sleep fitful.
He carefully let out a breath. “I sleep well.”
She only looked at him, neither denying it nor agreeing.
“I tell you, Gwenllian, never have I slept so sound.”
Her eyes slid to the left – looking, he realized, for anyone who might be near enough to hear them. But they were alone.
“Aye, is a sound sleep for much of the night,” she agreed. “Yet often do your dreams disturb it.”
He stared at some plant near her feet, a cluster of woody stems covered in purple blossoms, and swallowed hard around the knot in his chest. It had grown larger and heavier, like the flask in his hand.
“It disturbs me not, lady. But it wakes you.”
He wondered if he thrashed about, or cried out. He had done both, years ago. In the years just after Aymer’s death, he had woken himself with it. But he had thought it long past.
Her face softened, and her hand came up to curl gently around his on the flask, warm and sure.
“Nay, it only disturbs me that I must watch you in distress, or end it by waking you.” Her fingers traced his, her eyes roaming over his face. “It leaves you careworn.”
“It must be dire indeed, to touch my vanity,” he observed with a smile. But she would not be moved to humor.
“Your dreams trouble you.” Her eyes searched his. “Do you not remember them, when you wake?”
He did not. When he woke to find her beside him each morning, he felt only gladness that no evil spirit had stolen her away in the night, that still she stayed with him.
He shook his head and looked down at the flask. “It will bring me sleep at night though I drink it at morning?”
“I know not. I have not used it before. Is an old remedy, not for sleep but for a peaceful spirit, both day and night.” She looked at him steadily. “In daylight too are you restless.”
He could not look away from her, but could not answer. The vague apprehension that would not leave him was sharper now, knowing she had seen it when he thought she took no notice. He fought against the dread it raised in him, that she could so clearly see a weakness that he could not even name.
Before she could say more, he thrust the tonic back into her hands.
“I will judge the garrison men for combat skills,” he said abruptly. “The best will be knighted. I would have Davydd spar with them, if you think him equal to it.”
Caught up short, she opened her mouth as though to speak, but stopped. Her eyes twitched away, then back to him. In an instant, as he watched, she changed. He saw her remember that the fighting men were not her provenance, that hers were the duties of a lady. An echo of the grief that had been in her face as she watched her men ride away crossed her features, and he was instantly penitent. But she spoke as though naught was amiss.
“He is ready.” She opened the flask in her hands and turned away from him to pull at some tiny blossoms that grew on a nearby vine. Her voice was businesslike, all hint of tenderness gone. “Do you think to make him squire to you or another knight? I cannot say if he wishes to be vassal to Morency, though he wished to be bound to Ruardean.”
She spoke as though it mattered little to her, dropping the tiny blossoms into the bottle with steady hands. His own hand reached out to trace the straight, strong line of her back, felt her still as it came to rest on her veil. He wanted to take her here, now, to lay claim to her as his own. He wanted to pull her down to her knees and bury himself in her, press his chest to her back and his mouth to her nape, to hear her panting for him, to know she wanted him. As he thought it, he felt her body soften again, accepting his touch. Accepting him. The stiffness relented, her body pressing slightly against his hand for the space of a breath before she leaned away again.
“Is better that you speak to Davydd of his wishes,” she said, her voice warmer now. “When first he came to Ruardean, he wanted naught to do with fighting. Then he wished to join the Templars, and then scorned the idea.”
He smiled. “And by now he may wish to turn minstrel.”
“Verily, or to return to his father’s house in Wales.”
With that, she left for the kitchens.
He found Davydd in the stables, tending to Ranulf’s horse.
“I have exercised my lady’s mount, too, my lord,” Davydd dutifully reported. Unsure what to do with the boy, he had given him a mix of duties to keep him occupied. Now they must decide his role. He said so, and Davydd looked thoughtful.
“I never thought to serve any but… but Ruardean, and my lady,” say Davydd cautiously.
“You wish to return to Ruardean?”
“Nay, my lord.” He shook his head. “Nay. Only I knew then what it was, to serve in that way. It is different here, and I am a stranger to these men.”
It was plain by the look on his face that the boy wanted what was gone: the other men, the wilds of the Marcher lands, Gwenllian to lead them. Ranulf could well remember the comfortable talk of her men around the fire, the easy companionship among them he had so envied. How remarkable it was that she had held them all, bound by her secret and their loyalty to her.
“You were happy, to serve your mistress.”
“Ever was she just, and sharp-witted. And my lord knows her great skill.”
He did. He was not like to forget it. But he wondered suddenly, how easy she had felt among them, how happy she had truly been.
“Aye, but did she never laugh?”
Davydd looked startled at the question. “I know not. Never did I see it. My lady is not frivolous. She does not laugh, nor does she ever cry.”
Ranulf looked down at his hands, remembering her face in them, her tears filling them and running through his fingers. He felt a quiver in his belly that ran up his spine, another new fear that he could not name, sharp as anything that might haunt his dreams.
“You will join the men in their sparring,” he said, taking refuge in a commanding tone. “I judge your skill, then will we decide where best you may serve. If you wish to serve Morency.”
Davydd’s face lit up. “You will join the sparring, my lord?”
As before, the thought of it worried him, the nameless dread warning him that it was ill-omened. Dimly, he could sense that he wanted it too much. It was an outsized appetite that was better left unsatisfied entirely, rather than to grant it free reign here at Morency where he prowled like a caged beast and, apparently, dreamed of demons.
But these were
mad fancies, and he was acutely aware that he had not trained in weeks, that baseless fears must be conquered – and that the boy had only seen him lose in combat.
His pride won out.
“I will, and you keep my weapon at the ready.”
He was rewarded with Davydd’s eager smile, and a promise that all would be made ready on the appointed day.
Three days later, when all was arranged, he stood in the yard and refused his sword until he had watched the men fight each other.
He thought the crowd that had gathered might grow bored and drift away, but it did not seem like to happen. More had come than expected, word traveling to the nearest manors and bringing all who could spare a day. There were squires who had served and were ready for knighthood, boys whose fathers wished them to become pages, and more. There were enough concerns to occupy him for hours before the sparring began, and perhaps for hours after.
In every face that looked to him, there was dread and awe writ clear. It had been this way at Edward’s court too. It was always this way, how they whispered and stared and shied away as though he were a dangerous but alluring beast. It was quite a trick, to both attract and repulse so completely, so effortlessly. Wicked and corrupt and lethal, a man to be avoided by chaste maidens and other such timid souls: it was a role he had long ago decided to cherish. A little terror from common fools, and more than a little disgust from those who thought themselves more sophisticated. The predictable reactions were reassuring. He understood them, and they in turn taught him who he was.
He tried to remember the advantage in it, of how it could serve him. But the unease inside him only grew, pressing beneath his breastbone. He forced himself to watch the sparring, ignoring the foreboding that prickled at his skin.
All those who fought had skill enough against each other. It was only when he matched the best of them with the more experienced knights that they were fairly challenged, and Ranulf found himself assessing their every move. One was slow and steady; another nervous and reactive, his weapon restless in his hands. He saw at a glance how each could be quickly defeated, watched their more seasoned opponents intentionally ignore those openings to prolong the fight.
The sound of the blunted swords clashing became soothing, their movements as they fought a familiar and comforting dance. This was a thing he knew, a thing he understood without trying. Even to watch it calmed the tremor in him, called to the thing inside him that wanted release.
He reached for his sword, resolutely turning away from the delight and terror in the faces that watched him, and answered the call.
CHAPTER 16
It was not the sounds of the sparring that caused her to take note, but the silence of the spectators.
The yard where the men fought was not far from the herb-house. Gwenllian worked there, one ear stubbornly trained on the sounds of fighting while carefully measuring out seeds of fennel. She had thought to distract herself with this work, but could not help but wonder how Davydd fared against the others, if Ranulf would find a serious challenger in any of the men.
But also, she would think later, some part of her must have expected it. How else to explain that she began drifting toward the yard at the first sign that something was amiss, though even the girl by her side had noticed nothing.
The silent crowd was thick, blocking her view of the fighting despite her height. The absence of voices seemed to amplify the clash of weapons. It was a frenzied sound, interspersed with grunting, and the rhythm of it told her it must be more than two men who fought.
She murmured to the nearest man’s back, “Who fights?”
He turned. Seeing her, he averted his eyes in deference and tried to lower himself in a quick bow. The press of others around him prevented this, but the attempt drew the attention of those closest. Others turned to her, and she repeated herself.
“Who fights?”
None answered, and her unease grew at the range of expressions, concern and fear and reluctance, on the faces turned to her. Instead of answering, they shuffled aside to create a path, parting before her as she moved closer to the open space where the men fought.
She saw Morency with a sword, fighting with a great bearded man – one of his knights, she recognized, who was struggling while Ranulf came on ruthlessly. His moves were smooth and comfortable, and yet she could sense a fury in him. Then she noticed he was fighting two men, with the second man recovering from a blow that had taken him to the ground. He rose now, hesitant to press forward. Two more men were sprawled on the ground at the edge of the clearing, faces bloodied.
She glanced to the side where Davydd stood, white-faced, and moved the few steps to reach him.
There was relief in his face when he sighted her. She opened her mouth to ask him what had happened that two men lay bloodied, when the sound of a heavy blow distracted her. It was the bearded knight who fought with Ranulf, clearly fatigued and ready to yield, and now fallen to his knees. Ranulf did not give quarter. He only shouted over his shoulder to the second man, who still stood hesitant.
“Come forward!” It was not a taunt. It was a command, his voice cold and hard. “Fight, or die as coward.”
The hesitant man stepped forward, casting aside uncertainty and attacking Ranulf’s back. Gwenllian tensed, knowing that the angle of the thrust was well-calculated, that Ranulf wore no armor, that he had not turned his body at all to prepare a defense of his back.
But this was Ranulf of Morency in full health, and his reputation was well earned. Without looking back, without interrupting his relentless attack on the man before him, he evaded the blow from behind. It was a dip of his shoulder, a twist and bend at the waist, and the man behind was thrown off balance by his own eager advance. Then Ranulf turned, lightning fast, his knee coming up to connect with the man’s chin as he stumbled forward.
“He does not let them yield.” Davydd leaned close to her, speaking quietly in Welsh. As she watched, Ranulf struck a blow to the bearded knight’s unprotected side that she thought probably broke a rib, and the man crumpled to the ground. The other man with the freshly bloodied face repositioned himself and began to defend himself in earnest. “I think he would have killed the others, had more not come forward to fight, and distract him from it.”
She saw it now, as Ranulf turned to his opponent. It was not simply anger, as she had first thought, or his arrogance demanding that he fight every man there. Whatever it was that had simmered in him since they came to Morency, that made the air around him hum with tension, had broken loose. On his face was a frantic kind of cruelty, a bloodlust, a madness.
She could not say if he wanted to kill these men, but she knew with a certainty that he hoped to fight to his death. He wished them to fight against him with lethal purpose, and they did as he commanded. But none would be able to overpower him. None was he equal. No man in England was his equal, as well he knew.
It was supposed to be merely a spar, a demonstration of skill. Not this deadly combat. The spectators saw it too. One man, who watched wide-eyed as Ranulf disarmed his opponent, crossed himself and muttered a prayer.
Though this last opponent had no weapon, Ranulf did not end the fight. He kicked the sword to him, a cloud of dust rising as it skidded to where the man kneeled.
“Up,” he demanded, his voice carrying clearly. “You will not yield.”
The man was not fit for combat, bloodied and heaving for air, his arm held close to his body as though it had been injured. She thought he might weep with weariness and the clear wish to cry mercy, but instead the good man reached for the sword to continue the fight his lord commanded. Ranulf immediately struck, pressing the offense while the other man desperately warded off blows meant to injure, to kill.
But it was the looks on the faces of the spectators that Gwenllian could not bear to see. None looked shocked. They had expected this. He was proving himself to be the monster they had always believed him, with this mad onslaught. She felt it pierce her heart, that they would look at him so.
She watched him strike a blow to the man’s head with the pommel of his sword, but she could only see the terrible inhuman look on his face.
Whatever demon held him in its grasp, she could not bear to abandon him to it.
Gwenllian did not think before she moved. Instinct propelled her, the world narrowed to only him. She felt rather than saw when he sensed her approach and shifted his focus to her. Though she could not imagine how he had maneuvered so awkwardly, somehow he had twisted, disarming his opponent once more and knocking the man to the ground, and turned to face her – all in an instant, just as she reached him. Less than a blink, and he was driving toward her, the blade swinging with deadly accuracy.
She moved, a quick motion to the left and down, pivoting on her heel to evade the arc of the blade. But faster than she would have thought possible, he brought the weapon back to slice the air near her face as she faded back to avoid it once more. She heard the onlookers gasp, and spared a curse for the veil that hindered her sight.
As his arm came up again, she reached down and pulled the hampering fabric of her gown away from her knees. Instead of throwing her weight back, away from the oncoming blow, she stepped forward. One hand striking his sword-arm away, head lowered, she thrust her shoulder into his chest and her leg hooked around his knee to throw him off balance. He stumbled but did not fall, recovered more quickly than she did – and then the sword was there, at her neck. Her chin thrust up to avoid the edge of it. His hand came up to hold her at the shoulder, as though to hold her firm as he cut her throat.
But then he stopped. Everything stopped. They stood motionless, facing each other, his blade at her throat. There was a suspended moment, his look uncomprehending across the flashing steel of the sword at her neck.
“Ranulf,” she breathed. And awareness came into his face.
She watched him register first that she was no enemy, then who she was. It was a terrible thing to see, grief and desolation flashing in the blue depths of his eyes. Still he did not move, his gaze fixed on hers as the moment spun out too long.
The King's Man Page 20