Bronwyn, spying the piece of juicy lamb Ranulf was dangling in front of her, pushed his arm out of her view. “No more!” she pleaded. “And tell those still working in the kitchens to come out and join us. They should not be forced to labor while the rest of us enjoy the night.”
Ranulf extended a finger to the large arched windows. Bright light was poking over the horizon. “Night’s over. It’s nearly dawn,” he murmured as he bent his head to nibble on her neck.
“Father Morrell will be quite annoyed if everyone falls asleep during today’s sermon. Perhaps we should all retire.”
Almost too eagerly, Ranulf jumped to his feet. “Well, I think it is time to end the night—or morning.”
Bronwyn had just managed to thank everyone profusely and ensure them all that she would see them shortly before Ranulf decided she had been on her feet long enough. He swept her back into his arms and was about to proceed toward the door when she snuggled closer to his chest and purred into his ear, “Take me to bed.”
“Are you tired?”
Bronwyn bit her bottom lip and gave a quick shake of her head. “I should be, but I am not. All I could do for the past couple of days was sleep in that hole. I need you. My legs and arms need to feel you around them. Prove to me I am alive.”
A need unlike anything Ranulf had ever known surged through him. He hadn’t believed he could feel such conflicting emotions simultaneously. Ecstatic and desperate. Fulfilled yet barren with longing. The only coherent thought in his head was that the path from the Hall to the solar was too far and definitely too long and instead changed direction, heading for Bronwyn’s old bedchambers above the Hall.
Once inside her room, he kicked the door closed and walked over to place her carefully on the bed. Bronwyn immediately started to remove her clothes, but he stopped her and instead took over the task.
With each inch of skin he exposed, he placed a soft lingering kiss. He had intended to take his time and savor every minute of knowing she was alive and in his life, but the moment her shoulders were bare, his need for her became all consuming. Her own writhing form proved she, too, was unwilling to wait.
Briefly stepping from her side, he ripped off his own clothes before removing the rest of hers. Falling into her arms, she opened up to him, and unable to stop himself, he slammed inside her. Her body took control. She wrapped herself around him and met each thrust. He knew then that he was still alive. That God had not forsaken him. He was in truth blessed beyond comprehension.
He loved and was loved in return.
The noise of clattering pans and constant squabbling had been growing for the past hour and was now too loud to be ignored. Bronwyn had once told him that these bedchambers were not ones to be coveted and now he knew why. His solar was practically silent in comparison.
“Are you awake?” Bronwyn asked. She was nestled against his side with her arm strewn across his chest and was looking at him.
Ranulf grimaced. “How could I not be with all that racket? What could they be doing?”
Bronwyn flipped over to her back. “Preparing for the next feast, of course.”
“I had forgotten.”
Bronwyn gave him a playful nudge with her elbow. “Forgotten the Naming of Our Lord?”
“Yes. I along with everyone else, I might add. This place became a tomb without you here. No feasts, no activity. Without you, no one seemed to know what to do.”
“You did,” Bronwyn said quietly, fondling the covers. “I saw the battle, or at least enough to know you had one. How did you know it was Luc who trapped me?”
The tension in Ranulf instantly returned. “It was the only thing that made sense. But I wasn’t positive until I confronted him. Afterward I had no doubts. I saw the look in his eyes. There was pride in my grief, pride knowing he was the cause.”
“So you fought.”
“I fought and killed, and in the end, I realized it wouldn’t bring you back to me. You were gone and nothing—not even revenge—seemed worthwhile.”
Bronwyn swallowed. “Did Luc say anything before he died? Was he sorry? Or did he hate until the end?” she rambled, not wanting to ask, but needing to know.
“I didn’t kill him. He got away.”
Bronwyn pushed herself to a sitting position and looked down at Ranulf, her blue eyes intense. “Where did he go?”
“My guess is London.”
“But what about the truce? The king? What is going to happen to you?”
Ranulf threw his arm casually behind his head and replied, “Henry will definitely be angry. He takes loyalty seriously and has no qualms about razing castles of those who go against him.”
Ranulf’s lax attitude worried Bronwyn. “But the king knows you are not against him, that you are loyal.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t appear that way. I had no proof Craven tried to kill you when I attacked. And since I didn’t kill him, he is most likely on his way to tell Henry just how I acted outside of the law.”
Bronwyn’s shoulders sagged. “So Luc is going to get away with everything. When he locked me in that room, he had told me he was trapping you. Only later, after the fire and when I saw the battle, did I realize that my death was part of that trap. This was his intention all along. He needed me dead to force you into taking action. I wonder what Luc will do when he finds out that his plan didn’t work,” Bronwyn said, murmuring her thoughts aloud. Then looking down at Ranulf, she pointedly asked, “Since I am still alive, could King Henry give Syndlear to Luc?”
Ranulf returned her stare for several seconds before rising and donning his chainse and tunic nearly simultaneously. Surprised, Bronwyn just sat and watched. Ranulf’s mind had just leaped somewhere else and she wondered for a moment if he was even aware she was in the room.
Grabbing his leather belt, Ranulf looped it across his waist and strode toward the door. Just before he opened it, he pivoted, and asked, “Do you think your legs are strong enough to ride a horse?”
Bronwyn blinked at the unexpected request. “I think so.”
“It doesn’t matter. Pertinax can handle both of us on him if necessary. I’ll send someone to help you dress, and pack. We’re leaving immediately.”
As he swung the door open and proceeded out, Bronwyn realized he was serious. “But where are we going?”
Glancing back at her, he smiled a wicked smile. “Westminster.”
“Westminster! Now? What about the Feast of the Circumcision of Our Lord? I’m the First Footer! I can’t just leave.”
Ranulf came back in and gave her a comforting kiss on the forehead before placing a softer one on her lips.
“Unfortunately, that is one tradition we must break. So pack only what is necessary and don your warmest gown.”
Bronwyn’s heart started pounding as she realized just who Ranulf intended to see and confront. “What are you planning to do to Luc?”
But the question was issued to an empty corridor. Ranulf was gone, and the next time she was to see him, they would be riding out of Hunswick at a speed she wouldn’t understand for another three days.
Chapter Fifteen
SUNDAY, JANUARY 2, 1155
WASSAILING
Traditionally performed at the beginning of the New Year, wassailing is the ritual of pouring cider on the roots of apple trees with a ceremonial verse promising a good harvest. In the early Middle Ages, wassailing was associated with a spiced wine, Renwein, typically enjoyed only by the wealthy as it required the importation of spices, such as ginger, cinnamon, cloves, allspice, and nutmeg. However, as ales improved, the wine was replaced and the wassail became a drink indicative to the means of the family. The wassail bowl, used to dip cakes and bread, also originated in the Middle Ages and is where the word “toast” comes from as a drinking salutation.
Ranulf stared blankly into the campfire, trying to ignore Lily.
“White horses always look dirty,” Lily told the young smitten soldier sitting beside her. “That’s why I refuse to ride them. Brown o
nes may be just as filthy, but at least I cannot see the dirt. Black ones, less so, but I have found that in general dark horses suit me better.”
“You just think you look better on them,” Edythe protested before succumbing to several seconds of coughing.
Bronwyn studied her redheaded sister for a moment. Tyr put another blanket around Edythe’s shoulders and eventually the coughs quieted. Turning her attention to Ranulf, Bronwyn promised him softly, “You’ll learn to ignore them.”
Ranulf grimaced and sent a reproving look to his youngest sister-in-law. It, just like the others he had sent Lily throughout the day, changed nothing. “I just find it hard to reconcile the child I hear now with the woman who appeared after your death. With you gone, she had to grow up. Now that you are back…”
Bronwyn snuggled up against his side with a sigh. “I admit I encourage it. Life will force Lily to grow up soon enough and I am glad it was not my death that thrust it upon her. In the meantime, you ignore her prattle and I’ll just be amused by it,” she advised before planting a gentle kiss on his arm.
Ranulf, with his free hand, raked his fingers through his short hair. How had he gotten into this predicament? But it took only one look at the huddled form next to him to remember exactly how. Bronwyn. He had wanted to make her happy. After thinking her lost to him forever, he would have promised her anything, even the moon.
Before Bronwyn, he had known peace and quiet, but not contentment. Now, he possessed an inner serenity he had never imagined to exist, but the calm tranquility that once surrounded him had vanished from his life.
Yesterday morning, Bronwyn—though in advertently—had reminded Ranulf that for Baron Craven’s plan to succeed, he needed her to be dead. Not alive. And certainly not in London. That gave Ranulf three, at most four, days to get to Westminster. Barely enough time if they rode light and hard.
The moment Ranulf realized what had to be done, he had started shouting orders and making preparations to leave within the hour. But that hour turned into three by the time they left, his intended small party of him, Bronwyn, and three guards had turned into a much larger—and slower—group moving its way out of the hills in the middle of winter.
He should have said no to her sisters accompanying them right at the start. And he absolutely would have if it had been Edythe or Lily who had asked, but it had been Bronwyn who had extended the invitation to her sisters and he could not deny any request of hers right now. He did not want to see disappointment of any kind on her face and certainly not as a result from something he had said or done.
Now he was paying the price.
Just getting out of Hunswick should have been a warning to the speed and tone of the journey. Fur hides for warmth had to be secured for everyone, which should have been easy, but no one could remember the last time the previous lord had traveled anywhere. And when he did, it was always in much warmer weather requiring few of the provisions Ranulf had demanded.
Tents, which everyone agreed were somewhere, took the most time locating. Ranulf had been about to forfeit the canvas protection when Tyr had asked if he expected Bronwyn to sleep in the open, with nothing to protect her from the elements.
Finally, the canvas shelters were located and Ranulf thought they were on the verge of leaving when came the debacle of the horses. All three of Laon’s daughters were accomplished horsewomen, a rare skill, though not surprising as they often had traveled between Syndlear and Hunswick. But neither Lily’s nor Edythe’s horse was equal to the journey in front of them. Finding others that suited both women had been a painful process that eventually required Bronwyn’s firm hand.
Preparing to leave had been arduous, but it was nothing compared to the journey once it had started.
Traveling with men, in the winter, was hard. Traveling with women was difficult, but trekking through the winter mountains with females who had never journeyed anywhere was straining Ranulf’s every last nerve.
Even food became a problem when Lily had declared dried beef and bread not agreeable. She was cold and needed something hot. Bronwyn unfortunately supported the idea. Probably less out of a need to appease Lily and more to support Edythe, who had caught a harsh and constant cough, but the result was the same. Another hour was lost as Ranulf found himself ordering his men to hunt for the evening’s meal.
Then exhaustion followed, and by the time they had finished eating, all three women had passed out cold, including his wife. Today had fared a little better, but still they had stopped earlier and traveled less than he had desired.
If they did not pick up the pace, the journey would mean little, for it would be too late.
Bronwyn hugged her husband’s arm, wishing she could take back her request to have her sisters travel with them. When Lily had caught her packing, she had asked where they were going and Bronwyn answered, “Westminster,” not considering just how her little sister would react.
Immediately, Lily had begged to come, chattering nonstop about court, the new king and queen, and all the festivities that would be incomparable to anything she had ever had a chance to see. Bronwyn instinctively refused but Lily could not be persuaded to accept the decision. Then Edythe had entered the room and heard about the idea. Quickly, she decided that if Lily was to go, so would she. Both reminded her of their limited chances to travel beyond Hunswick, let alone outside Cumbria. Without a legitimate reason to deny her sisters’ request, Bronwyn eventually acquiesced.
So she had asked Ranulf, explaining how after her ordeal, she felt uncomfortable being separated from her sisters. Soon afterward she had regretted it.
Yesterday, Lily’s excitement had monopolized the conversation, wearing everyone out. By the time they had stopped to camp, all the events over the past few days had caught up with Bronwyn. She had barely been able to remain awake during the evening meal. Typically an early riser, she was still fighting fatigue in the morning when Ranulf tapped her cheek and said they had to be leaving. He felt so bad about it, and she wanted to ask just what was driving this insane push south, but Lily had popped in and once again the opportunity had been lost.
Tonight, however, Bronwyn vowed to stay awake until she understood exactly what was driving Ranulf’s crazed reaction. She reached up and stroked his cheek to get his attention. He glanced down and she pointed toward the tent he had set up for them when she and her sisters helped prepare the evening meal. His eyebrows shot up, high and rounded, and then rose to his feet. He outstretched his hand and helped her to stand.
Bronwyn welcomed the support. By and large, her legs had recovered from their ordeal, but having to ride for two days immediately following such abuse had definitely strained them. They stiffened every time she sat for any length of time, but at least she could walk now with limited assistance.
Ranulf pushed aside the opening and followed Bronwyn inside. Dropping the flap, he moved in behind her and slowly started to loosen the ties of her bliaut. Bronwyn reached back and tugged at the snood holding her hair and let the dark tawny locks fall down. Immediately, Ranulf’s hands paused and then tangled his fingers in the thick soft mass, pulling her back against him.
He let go a sigh and pressed a kiss on top of her head. Bronwyn could feel the tension in him lessening. She closed her eyes and let his warmth envelop her. “I’m sorry this trip has been so difficult.”
“It could be worse. We could be enduring Father Morrell’s celebration of the Eucharist.”
Bronwyn’s jaw dropped and she turned in his arms to see if Ranulf was serious. He was.
Ranulf framed her face in his hands and placed a soft kiss on her lips. He then stepped aside and pulled his tunic over his head. Seeing her still stunned, sea blue eyes follow his movements, he said, “Don’t look at me that way. The aggravating priest confronted me when you were packing, telling me that I was damning all of our souls by taking you away on such an auspicious day.”
Bronwyn bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing. “Father Morrell’s just concerned. He believes th
at all should be given Holy Communion at least once a year and—”
“He has chosen the last Sunday of the Twelfthtide to be that day. I understand. But just as I told him, I’ve missed so many of what he considers critical celebrations in my lifetime, another won’t matter. And since you’ve attended almost every one, forgoing one or two this year is just as trivial.”
Bronwyn took a deep breath, exhaled, and followed his lead, freeing the restraints of her bliaut. “I’ve married a heathen.”
Helping her pull the thick material over her head, Ranulf agreed, “I think that is exactly what Father Morrell concluded as well.”
Free from the bulky winter garment, Bronwyn felt a surge of arousal and twisted around to kiss him full on the lips. “Then maybe I’ll just have to reform you.”
“Sounds tempting,” Ranulf murmured against her lips, “but what if it is I who corrupt you?” he asked as he slowly edged her shift up over her hips, breasts, and then head.
Bronwyn smiled and twined her arms around his neck. She felt no awkwardness for her lack of clothing. She had nothing to hide from this man. He thought her perfect. “You’ve already tried.”
“And it’s working. Just who is seducing whom, angel?”
“Oh, I am definitely seducing you, my lord.”
Tomorrow she would ask him about his reasons for their impromptu journey south. She suddenly had other plans.
Chapter Sixteen
MONDAY, JANUARY 3, 1154
FEAST OF SAINT MACARIUS THE YOUNGER
Held on January 2, unless a Sunday, the Feast of Saint Macarius the Younger honors the patron saint of pastry cooks and confectioners and is a day celebrated by making or eating sugarplums or candied fruits. Saint Macarius the Younger was a monk and a hermit known for his kindness to animals, but in his early life he was a cake maker and a sugarplum merchant in Alexandria, Egypt. Then in 335 A.D., he fled to the Nitrian Desert, where tales of his life vary. It is said that he once killed a fly and as a result lived in marshes—some say naked—for six months, letting mosquitoes and African gnats, whose sting can pierce the hide of a wild boar, bite him until he was unrecognizable. He lived meagerly on uncooked beans and cabbage leaves, indulging in bread crumbs on days of celebration. Accounts of miracles, such as basket weaving for forty days while standing, never sleeping or eating, led some monks to claim he was not human, but others to believe he exemplified monasticism with his austerities.
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