“The dragon tree,” Marak murmured, noting her stare. “You will find depictions of it throughout the castle. The largest of all graces the outer gates. The tree is wrought from iron made long ago, so the story goes, in an enchanted forge. At one time each dragon held a bell in its claws and according to legend, when a pure heart rings those magical bells, the dragons will awaken to fly in six directions. The dragon of the nether region will flee from despair and bring hope. The dragon of heaven will return with the gift of true love. And the four who fly to the corners of the earth will bring peace, health, wisdom, and happiness.”
Marak’s words held Amie’s attention until the squire brought forth a heavy X-chair and placed it before the board. He offered her a shy smile, then took up a dagger and sliced a thick trencher of hard brown bread, setting it on the table to use as a plate.
"Come around, girl," Tamberlane insisted, waving his hand. "Come around and sit. Marak will join us."
“My thanks," the seneschal said, "but no. I have already broken my fast and there is a mare in some distress down at the stables. I was on my way there to attend the foaling now.”
Amie scarcely noted his departure for her focus was fixed squarely on the haunch of venison, the platter of cheese and apples beside it, and a tantalizing bowl nearby filled with sugared almonds. Her appetite had returned with a vengeance and she could feel the anxious spurts of food-lust flooding her mouth.
After stabbing the roast to locate the most tender pieces, Roland carved off several thick slices of the venison. Tamberlane, meanwhile, cut wedges of cheese and fruit, and set all before her along with his own eating knife, which he graciously wiped first his sleeve.
“Eat,” he ordered. “As much as your belly can hold.”
Amie needed no further prompting. She began with delicate enough intentions, cutting the chunks of meat into smaller cubes and slices before transporting them to her mouth. But the delicacy vanished after the first few heavenly mouthfuls of the roasted venison and soon she was using her fingers, blissfully ignorant of the runnels of fat that smeared her chin.
Tamberlane watched, half-amused. While compliments and expressions of gratitude could unsettle him, hunger was something he understood and each time her trencher showed the lack, he passed more venison, more roasted onions, more chunks of cheese.
When the frenzy slowed and there was some sign of her belly rebelling, Amie set the knife aside and leaned back, horrified to feel a belch rising up the back of her throat. She contained it as best she could within the cup of her hand, then glanced across to see if Tamberlane had noticed.
The faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes suggested that he had and Amaranth did the only thing she could do: she smiled. It began as a faint response to the curve she saw on the knight's own lips, but then it spread and she could feel it coloring her cheeks with warmth. It was something she had not done for a very long while and she was reminded of the days when gaiety and laughter were as common to her as light from the sun.
To cover her embarrassment, and to do something to distract her from looking too deeply into the shuttered green eyes, she took up a cloth and wiped the knife before placing it back in front of her host. She then stood and began sweeping the crumbs and scraps off the board. The two huge wolfhounds watched hopefully, coming swiftly to attention, their big brown eyes moving to watch the motion of her hands.
"Maude and Hugo," Tamberlane said by way of introducing the hounds. "Toss them a scrap of meat and they will be your friends for life."
Amie smiled again and tossed each of the huge dogs some scraps of gristle. The wolfhounds remained completely motionless but looked at once to Tamberlane, who teased them a moment before making a gesture with his hand. As one, they leaped forward and pounced on the scraps, devouring them in a single pass, after which they watched Amie's movements like hawks, catching any crumb that was flicked their way.
When she had cleared the board in front of her seat, she widened the circle to include the area in front of Lord Tamberlane.
“You should not tire yourself," he said. "Despite evidence to the contrary, there are lackeys to do such things.”
“All dust-gatherers, from the look of it.” The unveiled criticism in her remark, more worthy of a chatelaine than a peasant wench, brought Tamberlane shifting forward in his chair.
Amie, having been the recipient on more than one occasion of a sharp cuff to her cheek for speaking out of turn, flinched instinctively back, but he was only reaching for the ewer of wine.
“You have a keen eye, Amaranth, although we have not had much need in recent months for clean linens and impeccable table manners.”
“I... I should not have spoken thus, my lord. It was rude and petty of me to do so, even in jest.”
“Oft times it is the jest that carries the greater weight of truth. More wine?”
Amie sank down onto the chair again, uncertain what to make of this enigmatic knight. He was no fool to be trifled with if he had fought and single-handedly slain three of the mercenaries who had attacked the village. Yet despite his years on Crusade and his reputation as a slayer of dragons, there was no visible coats of arms on the walls, no crest bearing his family colors, no tournament banners or captured pennons hung behind the dais. The vast belly of the great hall which could easily hold two hundred men, seemed empty and quiet enough to hear the rushes crackling underfoot. Neither he nor his retainers seemed to see anything untoward in inviting a lowly peasant wench to break bread beside him... not only bread, as it happened, but venison, a meat reserved by royal decree for those of noble blood.
He claimed there were sufficient servants, but even the smallest working castle should have had half a hundred or more maids and lackeys milling about, each with specific chores and tasks. Amie had not counted enough to use up all her fingers.
Marak had insisted that she was well protected inside Taniere Castle, yet to the casual eye, there were not enough knights and guards present to defend the remnants of the venison haunch from the two wrestling wolfhounds.
By contrast, Odo de Langois surrounded himself with hundreds of retainers, knights, and guards. The hall was half the size but was always crammed full of noisy, bawdy men slamming down tankards, groping the dozens of wenches serving them food and drink. The rushes stank from spilled ale and vomit regardless how often she, as chatelaine, had ordered them swept out and changed. Odo drank from a gold cup and used a jewelled knife for eating but there was no disguising the fact he was a pig and came from a pig's litter. He had won his spurs through battle, not birth, and the coat of arms that hung so boldly over the dais had been granted, along with his castle and holdings, through murderous favors he had done for Prince John.
“Marak says you have grown weary of the patterns on the walls of your tower room.”
Amie blinked and gathered her wits about her again. “I confess, my lord, I do miss having the sun on my face.”
“Roland—?” He half turned to address his squire. “Is the sun out today?”
“Aye, my lord. Tis a fine, warm midsummer’s day.”
“There you have it then.” Tamberlane pushed back from the table and stood. “I was about to follow after Marak to the stables and if the thought is pleasing, you may accompany me as far as your yearning for sunlight allows. Roland will attend upon you, and if you tire, he will see you safely back to your room.”
Amie wiped her hands on her skirt and nodded, curious to see what lay beyond the doors of the shadowy hall. Moreover, she would need to know her way out the castle gates and off the island when the time came to leave.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Amaranth followed Tamberlane up the stairs and across the stone landing to the arched doorway, mindful not to walk too close. The opening was cut low in the stone and Tamberlane had to duck to clear the lintel, as did Roland who remarked that he had shaved the top of his head more than once on the stone lip when they first arrived at Taniere.
A second set of covered stairs led downward
, following the curve of outer wall on one of the corner towers. The space was narrow and tight, a defensive design meant to hinder swordsmen who sought to gain entry to the keep uninvited. It was lit only by the natural light that came through the meurtriers that were cut into the limestone blocks. Both men had to keep their heads bowed the whole way down and stay to the middle of the steps to keep from brushing their shoulders against the stone,
At the bottom of this pentice, another thick, heavily banded door opened into the main courtyard and there Amie was met by the first warming rays of sunshine she had felt for over ten days. Bright and hot, she was forced her to raise her hand to shield her eyes from the dazzling glare and it was as thus, through the spacings of her sunlit fingers that she inspected the inner ward of Taniere Castle.
There was not much out of the ordinary to see. The area directly in front of the keep was cobbled in stone and extended perhaps two hundred broad paces. It was bordered by a ring of outbuildings set against the inner curtain wall. The yard was crowded, by Taniere’s standards, with several women gathered around a central well winding up buckets of water. Men pushed small carts filled with wood and hay, even a baker crossed the ward balancing a large wooden tray stacked with rounds of bread.
She saw two pairs of guardsmen talking by an arched bridge that led to the outer ward, and two more strolling leisurely along the battlements high above.
Behind her, the gray stone walls of the castle rose steeply into the sky and she had to tip her head well back to see the tops of the crenellated towers. On the far side of the arched bridge, she could just catch a glimpse of the long stretch of grass that comprised the outer bailey. Contained therein, along with the practice field and training grounds, would be found the smithy, tannery, abattoir, and stables.
For the ten months she had lived at Belmane Castle she had grown accustomed to seeing everyone come to a complete, utter standstill until an imperious wave of her husband's arm set them free to go about their tasks again. Eyes were cast deliberately downward lest unwanted attention was drawn, and women clutched small children to their sides to keep them from being kicked out of the way. Odo had kept a full garrison of men-at-arms, most of them rough, crude mercenaries who raised fists to their breasts like Roman centurions in the presence of their overlord.
By sharp contrast, when Tamberlane stepped out into the sunlight, the men who saw him nodded and tugged on a forelock, some even called out a greeting. The children scrambling in the dust continued to chase the chickens and the older women who were gathered around the well nodded to show respect but did not skip a word of their gossiping. Most of the curious looks were directed at Amaranth. Many had seen her carried in, as gray and cold as death and her appearance would undoubtedly stir up more whispers about Marak's magical powers of healing.
For the moment, however, Amaranth thought there was nothing more magical than wriggling her bare toes on the sun-baked stones. Her feet had not lost their chill in all the time she had been at Taniere Castle and the heat was as welcomed as the scent of lavender that grew in dusty little patches around the base of the walls.
A low whistle brought the two wolfhounds bounding past her skirt and with the dogs leading the way, Amie and Roland walked behind Tamberlane as he crossed the bailey and went beneath the arched bridge to the outer ward where the flat, grassy common followed the shape of the island. To one side was the archery field, with two straw butts leaning against the far wall, the straw painted with rings in three colors. Farther along was a line of posts and bars used as a mock jousting run.
At the moment, two young guardsmen were waging a battle against one of the quintains. Their shouts were echoing off the walls as their wooden swords bashed and stabbed at the swinging balls of stuffed canvas. Several children hung on the bars watching, cheering when an obvious strike against the Huns was made. Amie recognized Jibril among them, his small wooden horse clutched under his arm.
When she ventured a small wave, he looked down at his little brown toes and did not look up again until Tamberlane came close enough to issue a soft rebuke. It was delivered in a language Amie did not understand, although when she glanced sidelong at the knight, he switched immediately back to Saxon English, the language both he and Marak had used to converse with her from the outset. Neither had assumed a common village girl could speak aught else, although now that her brain had been fattened on venison, it occurred to her that Marak had addressed her in Norman French, that morning, the language of the nobility. She also recalled that he said she had spoken while in the grips of the fever, which would have betrayed her bloodlines far quicker than smooth skin and a lack of calluses on her hands.
Oh, he was a clever one! She had not even noticed him tripping her up on her own tongue.
“Practise your words, Jibril,” Tamberlane was saying in English. “Bid good morning to the lady and ask how she is faring.”
The boy murmured a shy greeting, heard only by the carved wooden head of the horse that jutted from under his arm. The instant he was finished, he turned and ran away as fast as his legs would carry him.
“Do you often have that effect on children?” Amie asked.
“Only the ones who know me.”
A fleeting smile appeared and briefly softened the lines of his face... a face that was near impossible to read insofar as to determine what thoughts were upon him. Such deliberate shielding might be unsettling to some, but to Amie, who, by necessity, had learned to keep her own thoughts and feelings to herself lest they earn her extra lashes from tongue or whip, it was strangely appealing.
They looked away from each other at the same time.
Against the far wall of the bailey was a long row of covered stalls, most filled with drays and rouncies, the workhorses of the castle. Several of the stalls had been enclosed with wooden planks to protect the more valuable beasts against the elements of weather. One warhorse would be worth fifty drays, a hundred if it was battle-trained. And a knight would sooner sleep out in the open himself than subject his destrier to rain or sleet.
It was to this end of the stables that Tamberlane walked and as they drew closer, the air grew thick with the pungent scent of horseflesh and fresh manure, a combination that gave Amaranth a strong reminder that she was barely a day out of her sickbed.
Her face must have reflected the gentle wave of nausea that flowed through her body, for a moment later, she felt the strong grip of a hand cradling her elbow.
“There is a bench by the wall where you can sit. Or Roland can take you back, if you prefer.”
Amie managed a weak smile. “I would, indeed, prefer to sit a moment if it please, my lord.”
Tamberlane led her to the low stone bench set against the base of the castle wall. A swath of fragrant pink wisteria grew halfway up the stonework and a small blot of shade was provided by a scrawny beech tree. She sank gratefully onto the seat, taking a moment to catch a breath of the sweet air and settle her stomach. Tamberlane beckoned his squire to her side and offered a brief, polite bow.
“Roland will remain with you, and when you have rested enough, he will escort you back to the keep.”
“My thanks once more, my lord, for your kindness.”
Tamberlane looked for a moment as if he wanted to stay and share the shade, but in the end, he offered a slight bow and backed up two steps before he turned and carried on down toward the stables.
Amaranth leaned against the stone and watched him pass from shade to sunlight. His shoulders were certainly broad and square, his legs long, his steps confident and sure. The hose fit his calves and thighs snugly, the dark blue surcoat fell to just below his hips. He was gloveless and hatless, and as she watched, he raised a hand in greeting to one of the guards high on the outer battlements.
Her eye followed the wall-walk around to the enormous twin barbican towers that guarded the equally enormous arched gates. The draw was down and the iron portcullis was up allowing villagers to come and go from the castle across the wide moat to the village.
There were two huge winches just inside the gates used to raise and lower the drawbridge. Cables connected the draw to the portcullis so that one would slam down as the other was raised. The outer walls were a good forty feet high, sloped outward at the base, crenellated at the top to give archers a good defensive position to fire down on any enemy.
Whoever had built Taniere Castle had intended it to stand solid for many centuries and she could almost believe Marak when he said she was safe within its walls.
“...Amaranth?”
She looked up and gave a little frown.
“That is your name, is it not?” Roland asked.
She shifted slightly on the bench, for her shoulder was burning, her head was pounding, and she was not entirely confident of her ability to walk all the way back to the keep.
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Then that is what I shall call you.”
He smiled and tipped his head in a way that Amie suspected had sent many a maiden’s heart fluttering within her breast. Young and handsome and earnest, with a full set of teeth that flashed whitely in a smooth, square jaw, Roland was already well bulked across the chest and shoulders. His eyes were blue and sparkled with mischief as he gave her bosom a thorough inspection.
“You are only a small wisp of a thing, are you not? I warrant I could carry you back to the castle with one arm if your legs lack the strength.”
Amie smiled tightly. She had no doubt he had carried more than his fair share of swooning wenches when their knees were too weak to support them.
“My thanks, Sir Squire, but I only require a moment or two to catch my breath.”
He rested the flat of his hand on the tree trunk. “For a beauty like you, I would happily rob you of breath every time I had the chance. Nor would you regret it,” he promised with a wink.
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