Warrior's Song Read online

  “I want that gown off you,” he said then, and set her away from him. He didn’t want to, but he knew if he didn’t, he would rip the gown off her, and then what would she think of him? He could see the effects of the wine falling off her, leaving her cold and ready to fight him to the death.

  But she didn’t fight him. Indeed, she stood there, saying nothing, not helping him, but not shrinking away from him either. “Lift your arms.” She did, felt the smooth silk slide against her cheek, then the linen shift, not as smooth as the silk, but soft, nearly like Leah the goat’s butter. She was naked then. Standing in front of him, her arms at her sides. Naked, completely and utterly naked.

  “Ah.” It was all he could say. Unlike his wife, he couldn’t keep himself still. He grabbed her to him, lifted her and carried her to the bed, and laid her among several rose leaves thrown on the counterpane.

  He was panting hard, staring down at her, sprawled on her back, her legs spread slightly, the blond hair between her legs—no, there was a touch of gold in her woman’s hair—and he wanted desperately to touch her, to kiss her, to breathe in the scent of her. Instead, he began pulling off his own clothes. He saw that her hands were fists now, and said, “It will be all right, sweeting. I will take good care of you. You are not to be afraid.”

  “I do not know about this, Jerval.”

  Was that her voice, that small reedy sound that was high and female and frightened?

  “You do not have to know anything. All you have to do is trust me.”

  “My father told me to lie still, not to fight you. He said you would know what to do—at least he hoped you would know what to do. He is worried that since you are very young, you will be uncaring, mayhap rough, a clod.”

  A clod? He murmured ironic thanks to Lord Richard, wishing he had the man’s neck between his hands. “He is right and he is wrong. I would sooner take an ax to my own neck than hurt you. I am not a clod.” He was naked now, and she was staring at him, focused on his sex, harder than the stone beneath his feet.

  She said, never looking away from his sex, “I really do not wish to do this, Jerval.”

  He’d left her alone too long, and that brain of hers was working again, probably yelling at her that since he was a man and that was surely a bad thing, he would surely try to subjugate her and force her to do his bidding. He eased down beside her even though he wanted to part her legs and lay his full length upon her. He had to give her time, and so he kissed her and stroked those white breasts of hers until she was making those small sounds in her throat again.

  It was difficult.

  He stretched out beside her, knowing she felt him hard against her leg, but he merely smiled into her eyes and lightly laid his palm over her heart, pushing her breast upward as he did so. Her heart beat smoothly, slow and steady.

  “Do not worry about anything. It is just the two of us now, Chandra, and we are man and wife and all of this is exactly right.”

  “I really didn’t want to marry you, but Mary was right.”

  That stopped him cold. “Not want to marry me?”

  “Oh, no. Croyland is my home and all I know and love is here.”

  “What was Mary right about?”

  “She asked if I could imagine living here at Croyland with John as the master. I could not. She said I must have my own keep, my own family, loyal only to me.”

  Jerval knew then that he would hold Mary dear for the rest of his life. “Aye,” he said only.

  “Can you imagine the sort of lady that John will marry?”

  “It fair curdles my gut to think about it.”

  She laughed, and the sound warmed him to his toes.

  He kissed her again and yet again, then a slow kiss, not forcing her mouth to open, but she finally did open her mouth to him after some prodding, and he realized she didn’t know what she should do. Now she did know, and he thought he would spill his seed at the feel of her, the warmth, her taste. It was he who groaned into her mouth. She jumped, then kissed him back, more at ease now.

  He continued to caress her breasts, soft as the silk of her wedding gown, and he wanted . . . He pulled away, smiled down at her, but said nothing, merely lowered his head again to nuzzle her breasts. When he closed his mouth over her, she moaned. He thought hard about a horse race he’d lost in a tourney at York and it steadied him.

  She was breathing hard, and he smiled against her flesh, tugging with his lips, licking her, suckling her, and he could feel her heart now, fast, pounding hard.

  He let his hand stroke over her belly, touching her thighs, lightly pushing her legs apart, coming closer and closer, but still not touching her where a woman’s need was greatest, and to his delight, she jerked her hips. He was young, Lord Richard was right about that, but he wasn’t a clod, as Lord Richard believed he would be, curse the man.

  No, he wasn’t a clod, but he wondered if he would be able to hold himself back long enough to give her pleasure before he brought her pain, as he knew he must for she was a virgin. He also knew he must give her pleasure or he just might send her scurrying away, cursing him for a man who gave a woman only pain, a man who didn’t care. He would cut off his own arm before he let that happen.

  He felt her fingers in his hair, tugging, and he lifted his head from her breasts and smiled up at her, a painful smile because he hurt with need.

  He said, “What do you feel?”

  “It is strange,” she said, and blinked and looked very worried, yet interested at the same time. “I want you to touch me—my belly—as I feel very hot there, sort of hungry, I guess, and I hurt and I do not know what to do.”

  “I know what to do,” he said, and kissed his way down to her belly. He laid his head there, feeling her muscles tighten, relax, feeling her smooth flesh. Slowly, he thought, coming down further between her legs, parting them. When he touched her with his mouth, she froze solid as the small lake at Camberley in February, then lurched up and yelled to the beamed ceiling of the bedchamber. He both heard and felt her pants, for they were deep inside her, making her shudder and quake, and he felt the building tension in her. Yes, he thought, yes. She was straining against him when he slowly eased his finger inside her. By the saints, she was small, and he wanted to weep with the wonder of her.

  She grabbed his head between her hands, her breaths raw and harsh, her back arching off the bed. He pushed her over the edge, and she wept with the force of the feelings making her body fly out of her control. She was crying with the immense joy that filled her, the wonder that one could feel such an amazing thing. Then she felt his weight, felt his fingers on her flesh, and she lifted her hips, excited, wondering what more there could possibly be.

  At least she wanted more until he came hard into her, and she screamed again, this time in pain, trying to fling him off her, but he was heavy, and so deep inside her, she felt helpless, and all the grand feelings faded into oblivion, and she continued to cry, only this time it was the pain that bowed her.

  Jerval stopped. He balanced himself on his elbows, looking down at her beloved face, at the tears staining her cheeks, and he said, his jaw nearly locked from the grip he had on himself, “I am sorry, sweeting. But the pain will fade quickly. Just lie quietly and I will try not to move. By all the saints, you are more than I have ever imagined in my benighted life.”

  She opened her eyes and stared up at him. He was deep inside her body. It was something she had never imagined. She had seen men rutting women, but she simply hadn’t imagined it being done to her. The pain was receding. But still she burned deep inside. She was stretched by him, and it was still hard to believe that he had made himself part of her. She said, “Am I really more?”

  “Aye,” he said and dipped down to kiss her nose, and just that one small act did him in. He looked into her eyes as he roared to the heavens.

  He felt as though he’d been clouted in the head. He fell onto his back, brought her with him, holding her tightly against him, and he was breathing in the scent of her hair,
and then he knew no more.

  CHAPTER 12

  He awoke slowly, his mouth smiling even before he remembered the incredible release that had felled him the night before and sent him into a deep sleep before he could make love to his bride again. Ah, but it was morning, early still, and . . .

  “Chandra,” he said, his voice low and hoarse with sleep and need, and turned to gather her against him. He was warm and hard and ready.

  And she was gone.

  It was worse than being doused by a bucket of cold water. He sat up in bed, his sex still as hard as the handle of his sword, saw her virgin’s blood on the coverlet, and again, he smiled. He’d hurt her, aye, but he’d given her pleasure first, and that had to fill her mind, not the brief pain, so small it had been, truly, so insignificant, not even worth a thought or a mention. Aye, mayhap she had awakened smiling just as he had and gone into the Great Hall to fetch him some bread and cheese, even a small flagon of ale.

  It was a nice dream, one he didn’t believe for more than one crazed moment. He shoved the covers back and rose. He saw her blood on his sex, and frowned, but only for a moment. He had actually pleasured a virgin before he’d come into her and caused the inevitable pain. Ah, but scarce more than the veriest prick, surely, so quickly gone, nothing at all to a strong girl like his bride. He washed her blood off himself, dressed quickly and went down into the Great Hall. It was very early, and the hall was nearly empty. He imagined all the men and the guests hanging over buckets, leaning off the ramparts, ducking behind the practice field, heaving up all the wine and ale they’d drunk the day and evening before.

  He wanted his wife. He wanted to haul her over his shoulder and carry her into the forest just beyond the castle, to the east, to the large cluster of thick pine and spruce trees, hidden within from the bright sunlight, soft and dark. She would stand against a tree and he would lift her and bring her legs around his waist and he would part her with his fingers and . . .

  Mark came in, slapping his gauntlets against his leg. “I could not sleep and I wanted to, but it was not to be. I shared the last watch with Roul and Abel. At least my head isn’t splitting open like every other guest’s at the wedding feast. Why are you here so early? Where is your wife? She has not left you already, has she?”

  Jerval grinned and rubbed his hands together. “ Naturally not. I am here to find her. She is a happy wife, Mark. I pleased her. Aye, I pleased her well.”

  “By God, you are all puffed up. You are bragging and preening. I haven’t seen you like this since our visit to London three years ago when—”

  “Forget that,” Jerval said and laughed again. He couldn’t seem to help laughing. He felt very good. “Aye, perhaps it is true that I am very pleased with what I accomplished last night. Now it is morning and there are other things I wish to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “I want to leave this morning.”

  Mark stared at him. “Leave? Leave Croyland? But we are to remain here for at least three more days. There is more feasting and more sport, and your parents surely need to spend more time with Lord Richard and Lady Dorothy.”

  “They will. We will take only three or four men with us and return to Camberley. I wish Chandra to accustom herself to her new home before my mother returns. It is a very big change for her, Mark. I would rather begin it without my mother’s—ah, forceful help.”

  “Do not forget Julianna. She cannot seem to wipe the malignant look off her face.”

  Jerval frowned, but just for a moment. “I will speak to my father about it. It is time he found her a husband.”

  “You are doubtless right about Julianna,” Mark said, “but still. Leave this morning? When did you think of this? Surely not until after you and Chandra—well, I need not be quite so clear about what I mean.”

  “Nay, you do not. Actually, it came to me all of a piece, a whole cloth all intricately sewed, all formed in my mind, just five minutes ago. Now, is it possible? Can you have three or four of our men ready in an hour? Are there three or four men who won’t vomit on their boots or fall off their horses?”

  Mark thought about the few men who were still at least conscious. “Aye,” he said finally. “There are four men. Rolfe, Bayon, Ranulfe and Thoms. They are all strong and well enough to fight off bandits should they attack. They will grumble and hold their heads, but they will do. Do you want us to take some of Chandra’s dowry goods?”

  “Nay, let my parents bring all the wagons, and most of the men to guard all of it. We will travel light.”

  “Ah . . . does Mary come with us?”

  Mary. Jerval recalled that he’d mentioned her coming with Chandra to Mark. He nodded. She was now under his protection. “Now,” Jerval said, looking about, “where is my wife?”

  “I don’t know,” Mary said, coming up behind him so silently that, if she’d been an assassin, she could have easily stuck a blade in his back. She was, he saw, studying his face carefully. Did she fear that he had hurt her friend? Forced her? Probably so. He said easily, never looking away from her eyes, “When I awoke, she was gone. I had thought perhaps she had come here to fetch me some bread and cheese to break my fast.”

  “Oh, no,” Mary said. “Surely not. Only if you were Lord Richard would she think of that.”

  Mark said, “You are certain you did not frighten her into running away from you?”

  “Aye, I am certain. She wouldn’t do that,” he said, and grinned.

  “Ah, then she must be here, somewhere. Mary, you have not seen her?”

  Mary shook her head. She looked worried, although she tried to hide it. “Is Wicket gone? Perhaps she is riding.”

  Not more than a blink later, Chandra came striding into the Great Hall, dressed like a boy, her hair stuffed beneath a dark blue woolen cap, tendrils escaping to hang about her face. Her long legs covered a goodly amount of rush-strewn stone as she strode toward him. If he did not know she was his wife, if he had not possessed that white body of hers, heard her yell, felt himself explode inside her, his fingers clutching her hips, he would have seen a simple lad, all sorts of cocky and full of bravado, coming toward him.

  He didn’t like it. She was a woman. She was his wife now, not this scruffy boy who looked so sure of himself. He felt anger pulse through him. She should be lying naked in his arms this very minute, up in her bedchamber, in her bed, smiling up at him, kissing him, stroking her hands over his body, asking him to take her again, to give her that incredible pleasure. Again.

  He didn’t think, just strode to her, his pleasant dream falling beneath the rushes. He walked over those rushes and got angrier. She should be in bed, naked, feeding him chunks of bread, laughing as he chewed.

  He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, saying not an inch from her face, his voice a scratchy whisper, “I awoke and you were gone. You should not have left me unless it was to fetch me something to eat and drink. But you were not here. Where have you been? Why are you dressed like this?”

  She jerked away from him, her chin up, her eyes cold, just like the Chandra before she’d become his wife, just like the Chandra before he’d brought her pleasure.

  She didn’t look at him, just shrugged and said, “I was riding. Wicket needed exercise.”

  “That is a pathetic excuse and you know it. Why did you leave me?”

  She looked at him now, and there was a cold look on her face, and anger in her eyes. “I told you. I wanted to ride Wicket.”

  Mark and Mary were standing close, all ears. Jerval said, “Wicket will get all the exercise he needs. We leave within the hour. Get yourself ready.”

  “Leave? Croyland?”

  “Naturally we will leave Croyland. Think you we are in London?”

  “That is nonsense. My father wants us to remain here at Croyland for at least three more days. There is a joust planned, and he wants to go against you. There is no reason to leave. What are you talking about? Leave to go where?”

  Her father again. Would she have yelled for him in
the competition were they not to leave? “I wish to leave today for Camberley. You have an hour. See to it.”

  She jerked off her cap and threw it to the rush-strewn floor. “I do not wish to leave yet. You make no sense. You shout orders, but you do not give any good reasons.”

  “I don’t have to give you any reasons at all, good or otherwise. I wish to leave, and it is my wishes that are important. Cease your woman’s prattle and do my bidding.”

  Mary saw that Chandra was ready to leap upon her husband of less than a day, and threw herself between them. She said quickly, her hand tight on Chandra’s forearm, “Listen to me, Chandra. Jerval wishes you to become accustomed to your new home before everyone else returns. He wishes to show you everything himself, with no interference, with no other duties that would distract you, that would take your time.”

  Chandra stepped right into her friend’s face and snarled like a wild wolf, “Get out of the way, Mary.”

  “No. If you want me moved, you will have to throw me out of the way.”

  Chandra got hold of herself. She saw that Jerval’s eyes were narrowed, that he didn’t believe for a moment that she would attack him. She snarled in that same voice, “Then why didn’t the fool tell me that?”

  He nearly set Mary aside himself. “Listen to me, wife. I want us gone before my mother starts giving you instructions that will surely make you want to clout her in the head.”

  She was silent a moment, then said, her voice really quite nice and calm now, “Oh, I see. That is probably a good idea.” Then she smiled at both Mary and her husband, turned on her heel and strode, just like an arrogant boy, to the stairs. She was whistling. She paused there for a moment and said over her shoulder, “I will not need an hour. I will help Mary, then see to all our supplies. How many days will we be traveling?”

  “Three or four.”

  “Very well.” And she was gone, taking the deep stone stairs two at a time.

  Jerval stood there in the Great Hall, listening to a few moans from men curled up amid the rushes.