Warrior's Song Read online

  Graelam engaged her this time. He slammed his sword against hers, slicing downward, dragging her sword with his. He didn’t pause, just hammered again and again, giving her no respite. She knew he would crush her soon; his strength and his skill were simply too great. She fell back, slowly, slowly, her eyes on his face, hoping to see his strategy mirrored in his eyes. Soon now. Soon she would make her move. His blows were rhythmic, unending, and it seemed to her that each new blow was harder than the last. She wondered if he ever tired. Soon now. She danced to the side. When he turned slightly to come after her, she knew it was the moment she’d waited for. She leapt toward him, her knife out and raised. She struck her knife with all her strength at his naked throat.

  CHAPTER 2

  She saw her knife driving forward, straight and strong toward his unprotected neck, felt her own power behind that driving blow, limitless, focused, and then, suddenly, he had twisted about, and his hand in its leather gauntlet had somehow closed around her wrist and he was only inches from her face.

  “A trick your father taught you, I assume,” he said, and she saw that he wasn’t breathing hard at all. She was nothing to him, nothing at all. The pain of knowing that was nearly as great as the pain in her wrist.

  He squeezed slowly until she felt she would die from the pain. “Stop this. I have no wish to break your wrist. Drop the damned knife.” And in the next moment, her knife dropped from her numb fingers. She tried to bring up her sword, but he grabbed her and pulled her back against his chest. Both of their swords clattered to the rocky ground. He held one arm around her, and with his other hand, he pulled off her cap.

  He was silent for a moment; then he said, very close to her ear, “You smell like sweat and fury and boar’s blood, but now it is over. I have won.”

  So very easy for him, she thought, wanting to grab her wrist and rub it, the pain was so great, but she didn’t. She saw Ellis lying there, just staring at them, and there was defeat on his face.

  She had lost. She wanted to curse him, but she said nothing.

  Graelam called out to her men, “It is over, as I just told your mistress. There will be no looting, no killing, if you will drop your weapons and come with us into the castle.”

  She heard her men speaking in low, angry voices.

  Then they were riding slowly forward, toward that long line of Graelam’s men. The man who had ridden behind Graelam sat tall on his horse’s back, calling out calmly, “My name is Abaric. Attend me. No one will be hurt. Just keep riding.” He looked toward Graelam. “You will bring her, my lord?”

  “Aye,” Graelam said, “I will bring her.” She heard the possession in his voice, his triumph and pleasure, and she wanted to slink away in shame. She had failed.

  “Have her men collect the old man, but don’t let him near a weapon. He would gullet me if he could.”

  She felt his arm hard beneath her breasts and said, “My men will never lower the drawbridge, never.”

  He said nothing.

  “You will see.”

  He merely shook his head. His man handed him his helmet and he put it back on. He was faceless again, and that was more terrifying because he was no longer just a man.

  It seemed that such a short time had passed when Graelam, Chandra seated in front of him on his powerful destrier, one arm holding her against him, rode forward to take position in front of his men. He came to a stop twenty feet from the castle walls. He yelled up to the battlements, where all her father’s remaining soldiers stood poised, his voice reaching every part of Croyland castle, “I have Lady Chandra. You will lower the drawbridge or I will cut her throat.”

  She felt a knife edge against the naked flesh of her neck.

  “He won’t,” she yelled. “He doesn’t want me dead. Don’t lower the drawbridge!”

  The knife nicked her flesh and she felt a sharp sting, felt her blood, hot and heavy, seep out.

  She heard their voices from atop the ramparts, but there was no hesitation at all.

  “It is a fine holding,” Graelam said as they rode into the inner courtyard. There were horses and cows and chickens, at least a half-dozen dogs and a good dozen children, most of them quiet now, staring at the enemy who had just come into their world. Even the Croyland rooster, King Henry, he was called, had backed up, comb high, and was staring at them. Chandra watched as his men rounded up all the Croyland soldiers, watched the man Abaric lead them toward the dungeons.

  Once in the huge Great Hall, Graelam looked at the black-beamed ceiling high above his head, the fresh-scented reeds that covered the floor, the well-scrubbed tables, the rich tapestries that hung on the walls to keep the sea’s dampness from seeping into the castle. There were few servants in evidence, however, and not more than a half-dozen men, their heads down, and Graelam said as he nodded, “This will do. You and I will be wed here, this evening, by your priest, Father Tolbert.”

  “I will never wed you,” Chandra said. “There is no way you can force me.”

  He looked at her a moment, then nodded again, as if he’d known she would say that. He said, “Tell me, where is Lady Dorothy and Lord Richard’s heir, John?”

  “You will not find them,” Chandra said.

  “You think not?” Graelam said. She was held loosely now by two of his men. “I will find them and then we will see how long your stubbornness lasts.”

  She knew he wouldn’t find her young brother and her mother, and he saw that knowledge in her eyes. She lowered her head, a bitter smile on her mouth. They were in the small hidden room beneath the granary that lay just above the dungeons. It was a standing order from Lord Richard. Trouble of any kind, and they were to remain hidden there until he came for them. They were safe. But at what cost? She didn’t yet know.

  But she did know that Graelam de Moreton would gain no leverage. Whatever the cost, she would bear it.

  “Find them, Abaric,” he said to his man. “Also, bring me the priest.”

  Never had a keep been taken so easily, so very effortlessly, she thought as she watched Lord Graelam sit in her father’s chair at the head of one of the long tables, one of the serving girls, her hands shaking, giving him bread and cheese and a goblet of the fine Croyland ale. She stood silently between his men.

  “I will not marry you, my lord. All this is for naught. You will not find my brother to use to gain my compliance. You will leave soon, and I will see the back of you.”

  “You thought never to wed?”

  “No.”

  “That is very strange.”

  “Not at all. My father needs me.”

  “Your father has his heir—a boy, who will someday be a man, something you will never achieve, Chandra, no matter how much skill you have with weaponry. You are meant to be a wife and the mother of warrior sons.”

  “No,” she said again.

  He said, looking at her now, “There is much you do not know, Chandra, much your father has not told you. Speak to the dwarf, Crecy. He will tell you that I have sought an honorable marriage alliance with Lord Richard for two years. I was at first refused, your father’s reason being that you were too young for a husband, which I accepted even though you were sixteen and surely old enough. Since that time he has sent Crecy to me with empty promises to keep me at bay. I grew tired of waiting, tired of all the lies, and now I have come to take what is mine. Your father will not come after you, Chandra, for I will wed you this evening in the Great Hall of Croyland, by your priest, with all honor that is due you. And this night, you will share your bedchamber with me and your virgin’s bed will become our marriage bed.”

  Of all he had said, she heard only that her father had kept him away from her. She felt warmth in her heart. He wanted her to remain here with him. She smiled as she said, “From what you say, it is obvious that my father didn’t want an alliance with you. It is as I told you. He wants me here at his side. He would never sell me to another man.”

  He drank deeply from his goblet, his eyes never leaving her face. He said s
lowly, “You speak of your father as if he were your lover.”

  Graelam saw the shock on her face, her sudden pallor. “Does that notion distress you? It should. You are a woman, meant to serve a husband honorably and bear his children. You are not meant to remain with your father, despite any feelings you may have for him and he for you. Now, enough.”

  When he had drunk his fill of the Croyland ale, he led her through the great hall, eerily silent now, for the servants had hidden themselves. She heard his men, some of them yelling, some giving orders, one of them even singing. Crecy, the dwarf, stood in the open door.

  “Well, Crecy,” Graelam said. “I have come for what is mine.”

  The dwarf bowed low. “It would appear so, my lord. It is a pity that you would not wait. Lord Richard will not be pleased.”

  “He should not have played me false. Now he will lose his precious daughter anyway. Tell her that I have dealt honorably with her damned father.”

  Crecy said, “What he says is true, mistress.”

  “It matters not. I will not wed him, Crecy. My father was right not to want an alliance with him. He has shown what he is—a thief who must needs steal what he wants.”

  Graelam didn’t say anything to that, just continued to Crecy, “Tell me where the boy and Lady Dorothy are hidden.”

  She yelled at him, “Even if you find them, I will not wed you.”

  He turned to smile at her then. “Of course you will. If you do not, then I will take both you and the boy back to Cornwall with me. Do you think that your father would want you returned more than his son, his only heir? Surely he must prize his son more than you.”

  The pain sliced deep. It always did because she knew he was right. “You will not find him, so it won’t matter,” she said.

  “I cannot tell you, my lord,” Crecy said, and he drew himself up to his full four and a half feet. “I cannot, or Lord Richard will kill me. If you kill me for not telling you, why then, I have only lost perhaps three days of life.”

  Graelam dismissed him, then said to Chandra, “I wish to see the rest of the keep.” He said to the two men with him, “Keep an eye out.”

  “There are no soldiers hidden about to come out and slit your throat. More’s the pity.”

  “Come.”

  But where he wanted to go was her bedchamber. They went up the winding stone staircase. He knew where she slept, she realized, watching him stride toward the door at the landing of the second level. He opened the door and walked in, motioning his two men to bring her. The shutters were drawn over the narrow windows. The room was dim and chill.

  Mary stood in the center of the room, a pale hand pressed against her breast. Chandra heard one of the men draw in his breath behind her.

  “One of your servants, Chandra?”

  “No, she is one of my ladies. Mary is the daughter of Sir Stephen of Yarmouth, a vassal to my father. She has lived with me since we were children. She is too young to understand what is going on here. Have your men leave her be.”

  “How old are you, Mary?” Graelam said to her.

  “I am seventeen, my lord.”

  He smiled at Chandra. “Not a child at all.” He walked to Mary. He took her chin in the palm of his hand and forced her face up. “Tell me where the boy is hidden, Mary.”

  She stared up at the man, dark as a moonless night, his voice deep and calm as the waters in the Edze River she had fished in just the previous day. She shook her head. She wasn’t a fool. She understood exactly what he would do if she did not tell him. He would kill her. But she wasn’t a coward and she said, “I cannot tell you, my lord.”

  Graelam said over his shoulder, “Hold Lady Chandra.”

  Her arms were grabbed and pulled behind her.

  “You really must tell me, Mary,” Graelam said.

  She was terrified; he knew that, as did Chandra, but Mary just looked at him, mute, and shook her head.

  “You are a lovely maid,” he said, and Mary realized then that he wouldn’t kill her. No, he would rape her.

  His men were looking at Mary. Chandra could taste their lust; it weighed down the very air. They were focused on what their lord was doing and so it took but an instant for Chandra to free herself. She lunged at Graelam, trying to grab his knife from its sheath. He whirled about as she yelled at him, “Damn you, leave her alone!” He grabbed her, again slamming her back against his chest to take away her leverage, his arms wrapped around her. He had great respect for her fists and her knee. He said against her cheek, “You fight me like a madwoman. What is this? Is this why you do not wish a husband? This girl is your lover?”

  She twisted her head to look up at him, and he saw the utter bewilderment in her eyes. “You will not touch her, Graelam. She is my friend.”

  “Then tell me, where is your brother hidden?”

  Chandra said nothing.

  Graelam turned to Mary. “Where is the boy?”

  Mary shook her head. She knew this man was the enemy. She had no idea how he had managed to take Croyland. He wanted Croyland’s heir. John had to be kept safe, kept hidden until all threat was gone. His safety was paramount—at least it was paramount in her world.

  Graelam said to his men, “Take Lady Chandra and hold her this time.”

  He lightly shoved her toward his men. Chandra kicked out at him, but her foot struck his armored leg. It was hard not to cry out because it felt as if she’d broken her toes. Then the men jerked her backward, twisting her arms, and she breathed hard through her mouth to control the sudden pain.

  “God’s blood, you fools, don’t hurt her! Just hold her.” When Graelam was satisfied, he turned slowly back to Mary. “Take off your gown. Your first man will be Graelam de Moreton. Perhaps it is also a good thing for your lady to see what her future husband is about.”

  Mary knew, oh yes, she knew what he would do. She whispered, “No, please do not, my lord.”

  “Then tell me where the boy is.”

  “You know I cannot.”

  “Your gown, Mary. Take it off or I will have to rip it from you.”

  Chandra yelled at him, cursed him, called him a coward, but he said nothing, merely watched Mary slowly remove her gown.

  “Mary, no, don’t!”

  “I must,” Mary said, her voice firm now, set. “The heir to Croyland must be protected. Do not, Chandra, plead for me.” Then she smiled at her friend, just a bit. “It really doesn’t suit you.”

  She began to unfasten the soft leather belt at her waist.

  “Graelam, no, you must not, no!”

  He heard the fear in her voice, the impotent rage, but he paid her no more attention.

  Chandra heard the men’s breathing catch as Mary slipped off her gown and her linen shift. She stood perfectly still, her eyes on the floor at her feet. Her body was white, newly matured. She was a pretty girl, soft, untouched.

  Graelam stood back from her, deliberately studied the young body, waiting for Chandra to speak. But she didn’t. He saw that her eyes were tightly closed. He had been certain that she would break.

  He didn’t really wish to do this, but now he had backed himself into a corner. Perhaps yet the maid would tell him. He sighed even as he began to remove his armor. It took him some time without the assistance of his squire. When he leaned over to unfasten his cross garters, he saw that Chandra was now looking at him, all of him. He raised a black brow in silent question.

  She swallowed, but said nothing.

  He stood straight, naked now. She closed her eyes against the sight of him. He moved toward where Mary stood, her head still down.

  “No, damn you, no!” Chandra struggled against the men, struggled until her eyes were dark with pain.

  “You have but to swallow your pride and tell me where your brother is hidden,” he said over his shoulder. “I have no wish for this. Nor does your poor friend here. Give over, Chandra, and tell me. Tell me and I won’t touch her.”

  Chandra shook her head, beyond words. She looked at him n
ow, his body, hard and powerful, so dark he was, the hair black on his head and on his chest, and at his groin, and his sex, thrusting out, ready, just as she had seen her father’s sex, full and hard, and she’d hated it, hated the sounds he’d made, hated the sounds the woman had made. Not just one woman—there had been so many over the years, one of them even her own serving maid, only fourteen years old, who had told her later, a stupid smile on her face, just how grand her father was, how very deep he went inside her.

  “No,” she whispered, “no, I cannot. You know that I cannot. Leave her be. If you wish to rape someone, then rape me, not Mary.”

  “No,” he said.

  He wasn’t golden like her father. No, he was the devil, black as night, black as a heathen’s darkest sins. He was terrifying, overwhelming, and he would hurt Mary.

  Graelam motioned for Mary to lie on her back on Chandra’s bed. “I will try not to tear you,” he said quietly, as he opened her thighs, pulling her toward him. “Just don’t fight me, and it will be over soon. It is your first time, so there will be a bit of pain.” He spat on his fingers and Chandra saw his hand going between Mary’s legs, and Mary whimpered.

  Chandra closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear it.

  His hands were still between Mary’s legs even as he turned to look at her one last time. “Chandra, you will learn that you will obey me, in all things. Where is your brother?”

  She opened her mouth, but Mary lurched up and yelled, “No, Chandra! Keep your mouth shut!”

  Graelam went into her. It was over soon, just one anguished cry from Mary, making her arch with pain. Graelam said even as he was moving deep inside her, “It was your maidenhead. There won’t be any more pain.”

  The pain wasn’t as awful now, but Mary hated the feel of him inside her, too big, too big, and she knew she was crying, but she just couldn’t stop. Mary wondered if he’d torn her somehow. He had said he would try not to tear her. But if he had, then she would die. She closed her eyes and waited, willing herself to bear the pain, to bear him. She’d held firm. She had saved John. She’d saved Chandra. She hadn’t fallen to cowardice. It must be worth it, it must. Yes, it was a small sacrifice.