The Maiden and the Warrior

by Jacqueline Navin

  “Nay, ’tis not what I seek,” he said softly just below her ear. Shivers went through her. “I do not wish wifely obligations. You know what I want.”

  Aye, thought Alayna, my complete, unconditional surrender. She grew desperate. “A lady does not enjoy such pleasures, but submits herself to use by her husband only for the purpose of lawful begetting of children. As your wife, pledged before God, that is all I can offer.” It was the catechism of young girls educated and influenced by prudish nuns and resentful priests and she didn’t believe a word of it.

  “You are a liar,” he said softly, amusement making his voice light. It sounded like an endearment. She was weakening. She was almost gone.

  “Did not your mother teach you the ways of lords and their ladies?” she tried desperately. “Women of virtue are not supposed to indulge in lustful beh—”

  “Cease this gibberish prattling,” he declared. His fingers dug into the tender flesh of her upper arms. “And never again speak of my mother to me!”

  He gave her a quick shove as if suddenly repelled by her. “I am tired of your devious ways. You go out of your way to goad me. I give you chance after chance to redeem yourself, yet still you will not respond to a gentle hand. I could have you beaten. I swear, madam, I could do it myself without a qualm, for if ever a woman deserved it, it is you! But I fear I would be tempted to throttle you and thereby silence that nagging tongue forever.”

  He was out of bed, stepping angrily into his leggings. Alarmed, Alayna cowered in the furs.

  What had she done? she wondered. She had not meant to anger him. There was some wound there she had prodded with her clumsy chatter.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. She knew he heard her words, for he stopped his movements for a moment.

  Apparently they had no effect, for he left anyway.

  Chapter Fifteen

  He stayed away. Alayna had no idea where he slept, but he did not return to their chamber for nearly a sennight. She barely saw him during the day, and even when she did, they did not speak. Although it was what she wanted—to be left alone—she could not enjoy the respite. Her mind kept ruminating over the strange events of their last night together, trying to discern what it was she had said to make him so outraged.

  She was still much preoccupied with her absent husband as she sat sewing in the chamber toward the end of the week. She liked to sew, found it very relaxing. It brought about pleasant memories of nights with her parents by the great hearth where her mother had taught her how to place small, even stitches in the fabric. Here they had spent time together as a family, laughing and telling stories and mostly teasing one another. Her father would look at her mother with adoring eyes, and Alayna would feel the love they shared surround them all like a protective cocoon.

  She wondered if a man would ever look at her that way. Certainly de Montregnier never would.

  She picked up a tunic of Lucien’s and fingered a small hole in the seam. She could fix it easily enough. Smoothing out the fine wool, she spread it over her lap. His clean masculine scent still clung to it. It was pleasant, making her sigh as she threaded her needle with black thread.

  A loud commotion out in the bailey drew her attention. Adjusting the slats in the shutter, she peered down onto the courtyard below. A small crowd was gathered in a circle. In the center, a man struggled against two others whom she recognized as a pair of Lucien’s mercenaries. Stripped naked to the waist, his back was crisscrossed with scarlet welts. Alayna flung open the shutter to get a better look.

  A crisp snap cut the air as a thick strap of leather slithered to life, landing on the man’s back to open another long wound.

  Alayna was frantic. What was this? Where was Lucien, why did he not put a stop to this punishment?

  Then she saw him, bare-chested and braced, standing a short distance from the man’s mutilated back with the whip curling around his feet like a restless snake as he drew it back for another blow. The sweat glistened on his body, making him appear more powerful than she had ever seen him before. She watched in fascinated horror as he raised his arm to wield it once again. His muscles strained, bunching as he poised for a moment to gather his strength before bringing the weapon down to bear. The man cried out, jerking against his handlers.

  Lucien’s vengeance was not stayed. He swung again. Again. And yet one more time, until at last his arm was still.

  He stood for a moment, sweating from the exertion, his chest heaving as he paused. He strode to the man, who was hanging limp from the terrible attack. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, Lucien jerked his head back to speak to him.

  Lucien’s message was brief. He let the man’s head loll forward, casting the whip aside before stalking off toward the stables. He seemed terribly angry. That rage had been directed at her so often. Alayna could sense it as if it were a tangible thing reaching up to her even as she sat safe inside her room.

  Turning back inside, she realized she was shaking violently, almost sick from the brutality she had just witnessed. Worse still was the visage of de Montregnier, his violence at last unleashed. She sank back onto the cushions, fumbling for her sewing, but her hands lay still for a long time and when night came, she slipped into the great bed alone.

  She had just doused the candle when a thunderous sound shattered her sleepy silence. Alayna sat up to see the outline of a figure she knew well; Lucien stood framed in the arched doorway. He had flung open the door, though it was by no means barred against him, and now waited for the last echo of the crash to die down into silence.

  “Good, you are not asleep.”

  He crossed the threshold and slammed the door behind him. She watched him with growing trepidation, trembling at the predatory way he was advancing into the room. The memory of his doling out the savage punishment she had witnessed this afternoon burned in her mind.

  “My wife,” he drawled. “My beautiful, cold, spiteful, vindictive little fury. Have you missed me, sweetling?”

  Alayna’s voice shook as she answered him, “I have been here waiting, I—”

  “Have you?” he thundered. He was walking awkwardly, lurching, actually. Alayna could make no sense of his strange behavior. She shrank back amongst the furs, afraid.

  “And do you await me every night, my love, longing for me, wondering if I have not found solace with another?” He laughed cruelly at her telling response, knowing he had hit the mark. “So you have missed me!” he exclaimed. “Well, fear not, my icy maid, for I have had no use for another.”

  Suddenly Alayna realized the wild talk, the stumbling gait and slightly slurred speech meant only one thing. “You are senseless with drink!” she cried.

  “‘You are senseless with drink,’” he mimicked with a falsetto voice. His voice deepened as his humor left him. “Aye, drunk I am, but not nearly enough. I can still see you, my delicious, untouchable little viper, and so I have not drunk enough. I still smell you, that sweet, musky scent that is all yours—and so my senses are not nearly blunted enough. Who can blame me, really? A wife such as you would make a man long for the blessed oblivion of his ale.”

  She stood, transfixed, hearing the horrible things he was saying, knowing that some of it was true. She was no wife for any man to envy.

  “Aye, look at you, with your hair loose and around you, those large eyes looking at me like a doe’s. That mouth ready to be taken, but it is all a lie, is it not? Beauty is the greatest lie a woman tells a man, for it promises delight but delivers naught but misery.”

  With a swift movement, Lucien snatched her to him. His breath smelled of the ale he had consumed, and his brown eyes were fierce.

  “You tempt me, woman. I have withstood the most terrible punishments a Viking lord, renowned among savages for his singular talent in that area, could serve up. And all without ever wavering in my purpose.”

  She dared not breathe, fascinated with the revelation. He had never spoken of his past.

  “You tempt me to throw my honor to the wind and break
my vow to have you as a willing wife. How can it be so easy for you to do in such a short time what old Hendron could not do in years? But for you it is ridiculously easy, is it not? None could ever claim what you have sunk your slivered claws into. My body betrays me, and my will deserts me. You tempt me beyond my endurance, little vixen. You are madness itself.”

  His mouth swept down on hers with a growl. Mindlessly she clasped him back, welcoming the cruel kiss and returning it with an ardor that took him completely off guard.

  He wanted her, and with the exhilarating realization of that fact, she had to admit that, despite all that lay between them—the anger and the fear—she wanted him, as well. Her desire for him was like a desperate, wild thing, with no thoughts or reason to tame it any longer. Let him ask his question tonight, and she would say him yea. She would beg him to take her if that was what he required.

  When he pulled away suddenly, her eyes flew open and her head snapped level to meet his gaze. She opened her mouth to speak, but the look of him stopped her. His face wore a look of tortured emotions more disturbing than any scowl that had ever afflicted those handsome features.

  “Do you know who it is who kisses you, lady? Do you know whom you embrace?” His voice was strangled. He shook her with a mild jerk. “Say it, say who I am.”

  “Lucien de Montregnier,” Alayna whispered. He was frightening her anew. He shook his head, demanding, “My title.”

  “Lord of Gastonbury,” she whispered.

  Her blood shriveled in her veins at the cold laughter that tore from his throat. “Nay, lady, not that in truth. I am but a slave. Did you not know that—a slave!”

  He released her at last, leaving her numb.

  Slave? Her mind absorbed what he was saying, flying quickly over the things she knew. In the armory, at the shock of seeing his father’s sword, he had said that he had fallen with his sire, but not dead. Taken, he had said. Taken as a slave!

  What had he said just a moment ago? A master who excelled at cruelty. A slave for all of those years! Could it possibly be true? She stared at him with a petrified look, for once not frightened of him, but of the truth that she was hearing. He smiled a lopsided smile at her, weaving a bit.

  “Do you know what I did today?” he rasped. “I flogged a man for trying to assassinate me.” He came close again, this time not touching her, only leaning in as if to impart some great secret. “Do you know how many times I was whipped when I was a slave? Nay, of course you do not. Neither do I, for there were far too many to count.” She had to look away from the intensity in his eyes. His mouth was close to her ear. “And today I had to do that to another man. Can you imagine what it was like?”

  Silence, and Alayna instinctively understood. “You had to do it, Lucien,” she said softly. Her gentle words surprised her, and she was shocked to feel the wetness of a tear sliding down her cheek.

  “Aye.” He nodded, looking away. “I cannot appear weak.” His eyes grew pained again as they focused on something far away. “Still,” he breathed.

  She laid her hands on his arm, feeling the strength that lay there under her palm and she marveled at how she had always thought him invincible, beyond the reach of other men, and certainly beyond hers. Her empathy for him overwhelmed her, and to both their surprise, she stepped close to draw him into an embrace. Placing her hands on either side of his head, she drew him down to be kissed.

  Lucien closed his eyes against it. She would be his tonight, he knew, but he was confused and he had drunk far too much. He could not take her, for his need would make him savage. He would hurt her; he knew he would. Hurting was something that would feel good just now.

  Abruptly he set her away from him, saying, “I am fatigued.” He stepped away from her and began to undress. Alayna stood stock-still, a scarlet flush staining her cheeks, before slipping into the bed. She turned on her side away from him. He extinguished the light and fell in beside her.

  When Alayna awoke the following morn, she found Lucien still sleeping. She carefully eased herself out of the bed, dressed quickly and went down to the kitchens to fetch the water. Making sure it was well warmed, she directed several servants to bring the buckets back to the chamber, stressing they must be quiet.

  She did not open the shutters to admit the day’s light, but crept quietly around the room in deference to Lucien’s rest, lighting the fire and tidying the litter of clothing strewn on the floor. Straightening, she found him awake and watching her with a baleful eye.

  “What hour is it?” he said hoarsely. He looked cross, she noted, wondering if it was the lingering sickness of last night’s indulgence or if she had done something to unintentionally provoke him.

  “’Tis well into the morning, my lord,” she answered.

  Running his hand through his thick hair, he eased back into the furs, looking down in surprise when he saw that he still wore his leggings. He cast Alayna a questioning look.

  “I have fetched water for you. It sits by the fire to avoid chilling.”

  He rose silently, weaving momentarily before finding his equilibrium. Once more the hand swept through his hair and he shook his head as if to cast off the fogginess that clung to him.

  He could remember little of yestereve. Vague, incomplete images were all he could recall. Alayna’s horrified face, her in his arms. He cringed inwardly at the thought he may have treated her roughly, then cringed again as the effect of concentrating pierced his brain.

  “Do you wish me to summon Agravar?” she asked.

  “Why the devil would I need Agravar?” he said, but his voice held no bite. “I will see him soon enough in the hall.”

  “I did not think you would wish to go out today. I mean, since you are so sick—”

  “I am not sick,” he protested unconvincingly, moving carefully to dress. His limbs were sluggish and his irritation at himself grew with each clumsy movement. “Get yourself out of here before I say something to start another war between us. I warn you that I am cross this morn.” Alayna skittered out the door.

  With his familiar scowl firmly in place, Lucien entered the vaulted hall where many still sat lingering over their morning meal. Ignoring the head-splitting chorus of greetings from his men, he stalked to the dais and collapsed into his chair between Alayna and Agravar. He shoved away his trencher and called for some ale.

  Agravar exchanged a conspiratorial look with Will.

  With a devilish smile, he gave Lucien a hearty slap on the back and spoke in a booming voice.

  “How goes it, my lord baron? Did you sleep well?”

  Lucien winced, leveling a murderous look at the Viking. “Well enough.”

  “That is gratifying,” Agravar said. “Though you look rather peaked. Are you sure you are well? Perhaps it is nourishment you require—these sausages are quite tasty. Here, have you tried one?”

  The aromatic food turned Lucien a paler shade. He pushed it away, choking. “Nay.”

  Alayna had to smother a giggle. She was amazed that Lucien, for all of his glowering, took their taunts in stride. She had not noticed he sometimes made a game of his dour disapproval. Perhaps he was not as perpetually cross as he seemed.

  The Norseman pressed his advantage now as he called out loudly for the steward. “Come fetch my lord baron some other victuals, for he cannot abide the sausage you have prepared!” Looking to Lucien, he inquired, “Perhaps some eggs smothered with gravy? Or would you prefer some stuffed partridges with elderberry sauce left from last evening?”

  “I am not hungry, Agravar,” Lucien snapped, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out over his face.

  “Perhaps some fresh air would suit you, my lord,” Alayna offered timidly. Every one of them looked at her in amazement.

  Agravar was the first to recover, booming loudly again, “Nay, my lady, our Lord Lucien must have nourishment to sustain him in his duties for the day. Why, without proper nourishment, we men would be weak and frail, given to unaccountable vapors and sicknesses of the stomach, would we not,
old friend?”

  Their merry game was again commenced. Lucien seemed determined not to succumb to the natural repugnance for the food that was passed before him, but his tormentors were more dogged. When Agravar offered a plate of steaming sweetbreads, Lucien rose abruptly and darted for the garderobes. At least his tormentors had the graciousness to wait until he was out of earshot before erupting into laughter.

  Alayna pretended disapproval, clucking primly before dissolving into giggles herself. When her husband returned, he looked much improved, giving his men a wry smile.

  “Enough lingering over breakfast, you lazy louts. Let us be off to our business.”

  The men arose from the trestle tables, the servants scurrying to clear the place so they could be about their other chores. Lucien paused, surveying the scene, looking somehow satisfied at this ordinary activity. The downward lines of his mouth shifted to a more pleasant vein, and he turned to Alayna with a soft look in his eye.

  “What will you be about this day, my lady?”

  She stared at him until she could recover. “I—I plan to work with the cook and seneschal, looking into the castle stores and making arrangements for some bartering with the peasant folk.” Why was his gaze making her blush? “I thought, since there is excess, that we could share the overage. It seems they would be apt to appreciate it, working harder and be healthier.” She faltered, “Is—is that acceptable?”

  Lucien smiled crookedly, apparently pleased. It was the first smile that Alayna had ever seen on his face that was not cruel or taunting. She was overcome with a strange weakness in her knees.

  “That is quite acceptable. We seek the same for our villeins. It is quite an asset for me to have a lady such as yourself for my cause.” His smile deepened, and Alayna watched in fascination as his features were transformed into a countenance of relaxed boyishness. The harsh lines eased, and his eyes lost their brooding skepticism.