Warrior's Song Page 4

  Chandra saw Mary, seated on the other side of Graelam’s man, Abaric, who was leaning very close to John, set there, undoubtedly, to guard him and see that he kept to his place. Mary’s head was down, but Chandra could tell from where she stood that Mary was very pale. Graelam had raped Mary, even though he said there’d be no violence, no brutality. He’d just done it as if it was nothing at all, and it was over and nothing had changed. Mary’s silence had bought naught. But for Mary, Chandra knew, nothing would ever be the same again.

  Chandra realized that no one must ever know what had happened, particularly Mary’s father, Sir Stephen, a hard man who looked at his young daughter with the sole thought of selling her to the richest man he could find. If he ever found out that she was no longer a virgin, he would kill her, for she would have no more value to him.

  Very little in life, Chandra thought, was fair, particularly when it came to women, particularly when it was the men making the decisions, which they always did.

  She saw a dagger hanging loose in a man’s belt. She could get it, she knew she could, and she could kill Graelam. She would die, but it would be over.

  Slowly, she sidled nearer and nearer to the man and that dagger of his. He was laughing, talking, drinking her father’s ale, paying no attention. She was close now, her hand stretching out now to ease the dagger out of his belt.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Ah, mistress,” Crecy whispered against her ear, “do not, I beg you. Graelam is looking at you. He will see you take it. It’s possible that he would kill John as a punishment.” Crecy knew this wasn’t true, but it stopped her cold. He watched her draw in a deep breath, gain control again.

  “I want to kill him, Crecy. Then it would be over.”

  “Graelam is a very hard man to kill. Leave go, mistress.”

  There was really no choice. She sighed as she saw her mother staring at her from across the Great Hall. The pleasure in her faded brown eyes was stark and clear. So pleased she was to be rid of her daughter. But it didn’t hurt, not the way it had when she was small. Ah, yes, and Lady Dorothy was now smiling, a triumphant smile. Why had her mother so disliked her only daughter? Chandra nearly laughed aloud. Not just dislike, that was too tame a word. All those years of abuse, done in the privacy of Lady Dorothy’s bedchamber, and she had never complained to her father about it, knowing, even as a child, that if she ever said anything, Lady Dorothy would somehow manage to kill her. A mother killing her own daughter—but she’d felt it, known it would happen. At age eleven, Chandra had been large enough to protect herself, and she had. She would never forget when her mother backhanded her for some misdeed, and she had known at that instant that she wouldn’t be beaten anymore. She’d growled like a young animal, deep in her throat, and leapt on her mother, her hands going around her neck. She’d nearly choked her to death before her old maid, Alice, had pulled her off.

  Since that time, Lady Dorothy hadn’t ever raised her hand or fist to her again.

  If she were forced to leave Croyland, she would not miss her mother. She saw that John was also looking toward her, and like her mother, he too was smiling, but there wasn’t real meanness there. She realized that he was afraid—the fear was stark and livid in his eyes. She was thankful that he wasn’t entirely blind, that he realized that his home was now in the hands of an enemy. As for his pleasure at this wedding of hers, he simply followed his mother’s example. Of course he knew bone-deep jealousy at his father’s treatment of him, resented her because his father gave her all his attention and affection. But she wanted to tell him that he was just a little boy and soon he would go to another great lord’s keep and learn to be a knight. And once that happened, he would be very important to their father, very important indeed.

  Crecy gave her over to Lord Graelam, who bowed slightly to her, never taking his eyes from her face. “Your beauty pleases me.”

  She said clearly, looking past him at the magnificent tapestry on the stone wall, at the golden unicorn who sat beside a beautiful maiden, the two of them woven so beautifully into the thick wool, “Aye, I am now clean, well garbed and useless.”

  He looked from her thick, burnished hair, still damp, to her light blue eyes, to the fine bones in her face, to her breasts, to her feet in the soft leather slippers. He had indeed believed the minstrel Henri must have exaggerated, but he hadn’t. By all the saints, he hadn’t. “Yes,” he said easily, “the skirt to your gown is very narrow. It would be hard for even you to fight me wearing that. Sit down, Chandra. It is our wedding feast. Your mother did well.”

  “Yes, I did,” Lady Dorothy said, raising her voice. “I would do anything for my dearest daughter, as you see, my lord.”

  The servants, terrified of getting clouted if they didn’t move quickly, served Lord Graelam’s men first, then the few Croyland men Graelam had allowed at the feast. The other thirty or so men were locked in the dungeons.

  There was delicious boar’s meat, laid out on huge platters. There were large bowls of leeks and sops in wine to pour over the bread laid in the trenchers. There was haddock with onions dipped in bread-crumbs and broiled until brown, served with brown ale. Chandra chewed on a bit of fresh bread, saying nothing, listening, watching. All of Graelam’s men were loud, laughing, cursing, punching each other, celebrating their lord’s wedding. The ale flowed freely.

  No choice, Chandra thought as she drank some of the sweet wine from Aquitaine, the pride of her father’s cellars, kept for only very special occasions. She kept her eyes on her plate. She wasn’t hungry. When she looked at the boar steaks, she saw only her blood-smeared clothes, Mary’s virgin blood on Graelam. She was aware of Graelam next to her, felt the heat from his body, saw that he was wearing one of her father’s robes, a brilliant red silk that didn’t come all the way to the floor as it did on her father. She hadn’t realized he was the larger. He smiled on her, but offered her no pieces of meat from his trencher.

  She thought about the coming night. She’d seen what he did to Mary, something so quickly over, so easily done, but the pain of it, the loss of pride and dignity, the lack of choice, it could bow a woman to her knees. She couldn’t imagine a man doing that to her, overcoming her, sticking himself into her, sending pain throughout her body, reducing her to nothing. She remembered clearly the times she had seen her father take any female he happened to fancy, any female who chanced to be near when the need was on him. It never seemed to matter how old or young they were for either the women or for him. Just heaving and laughing, and the women seemed to be enjoying themselves as well. She couldn’t begin to imagine such a thing.

  “Your home is Wolffeton,” Graelam said. “It was built by my great-grandfather, back when Eleanor of Aquitaine was Queen of England. He was smitten with her, I have heard it said. He died when her son Richard the Lionhearted came to the throne. Wolffeton is a mighty keep. I have many vassals, many men-at-arms. You will always be safe there.”

  She looked at him, but said nothing.

  “I will try to get you with child this night,” he said, and this time she attended him, her head jerking up, her eyes cold and frightened, until she gained control and her eyes became blank. “I do not believe so,” she said.

  “I will take time with you. There will be some pain, but for a warrior like you, it will be nothing. Perhaps you will even enjoy my taking you.”

  “I will enjoy nothing about you, save your death,” she said.

  He smiled, pleased. The thought of bending her to his will, of her submitting to him, her yielding to him, made him want to yell with the power he felt flowing through him. He would have her, at last he would have her.

  Graelam wanted very much to get the ceremony over. He wanted her, had wanted her for so very long that just the thought of her made him hard. He let her be. Soon, he thought, soon.

  Time passed. The air grew thick, heavy with the men’s laughter and jests. Graelam appeared not to care that she didn’t speak to him, that she merely sat beside him, mute. A servant came to her
side, slowly pouring more of the sweet wine into her goblet. She was so locked into herself that when the man spoke low, close in her ear, she didn’t hear him. He said again, more loudly this time, right in her ear as he poured her wine, “Look around you, my lady. I am Sir Mark de Gwen, here with Jerval de Vernon and twenty men. We are here to save you. When Father Tolbert comes forward for the ceremony, that is the signal. Get your brother and your mother to safety. Can you do this?”

  She nodded slowly, staring into her wine goblet. And then he slipped away, back into the shadows before she could think of anything to say, which was just as well because Graelam was looking at her again. Someone was here to save her? Chandra looked around the Great Hall. This time she easily picked out all the strangers, men all, at least twenty of them as Mark had said, wearing servants’ clothing, serving all the men ale and more ale. They were getting them drunk. She smiled. Now there was a chance. She saw one cowled priest walk slowly forward. He didn’t move like Father Tolbert; he was much larger than the meager priest who had spewed his foul breath into her face since she’d been a child. Jerval de Vernon, she thought. She waited, muscles tense, ready to leap into action, and wished the stranger had given her a dagger, anything.

  “It is time,” Graelam said, and lightly stroked his fingers over the back of her hand. Her flesh was very cold. He frowned a moment, then said, “It will be all right. All you must do is bend to me, trust me. I will be your husband, your master. I will protect you and our children. Give over, Chandra. It is too late for you to fight me now.”

  She said nothing, merely pulled her hand away and nodded.

  He didn’t like that, she realized, but he said nothing. She was afraid that if she spoke, he would hear something in her voice, the anticipation, the hope.

  Graelam stood and called to the priest, “We are ready, Father.”

  The man walked toward them, his head down, covered by a thick, dark-brown woolen hood, a scribe following behind him carrying a rolled parchment.

  Then, suddenly, the man threw back his hood, pulled off the wool robe, and shouted, “À Vernon! À Vernon!”

  All the soldiers garbed as servants grabbed for their swords and knives and jumped at Graelam’s men. As for Graelam, he flung himself at Chandra before the words were out of the priest’s mouth—no, the bastard wasn’t a priest. He was a young giant and his sword was already freed from his cloak.

  He missed her. Chandra managed to knock the chair into him as she slipped out of it. His men were slow because they were drunk. Before he knew what had happened, Chandra had jerked Abaric’s knife from its sheath and stabbed it into his shoulder even as he yelled in shock, knocking him out of his chair. Chandra shouted, “John, quickly, quickly. Get under Father’s chair. Hurry!”

  “But, Chandra—”

  “Do as I tell you! Lady Dorothy, get you to safety with him, now!”

  The Great Hall was in pandemonium. Even as Graelam was methodically working his way to her, his sword drawn, he was shouting orders. Food and ale were hurled to the rushes as his soldiers tried to get themselves together. They were well trained, but they had drunk more ale than usual and they were slower, their brains sluggish, for they hadn’t expected anything like this. But soon enough they had their weapons in hand and were fighting.

  Suddenly, the doors to the Great Hall burst open, and Lord Richard’s men who had been locked in the dungeons came running in, shouting, “À Avenell! À Avenell!”

  Chandra saw Graelam hacking his way toward her, his face grim, his concentration complete. Unlike his men, he had drunk little. She stuffed her stolen knife into her belt, then leaned down and grabbed the sword of a fallen soldier.

  Mark saw her with that sword and blanched. What the devil was she doing? Was she mad? Hysterical? He yelled, “Lady, run, get out of here, hurry.”

  Chandra saw that Lady Dorothy had stuffed John beneath his father’s chair. She herself was pressed back against a tapestry, out of danger.

  Chandra heard one of Graelam’s men yelling curses, even as he raised his sword to drive it into Mark’s back. Without hesitation, she rammed her sword through the man’s side.

  Mark whirled about and gaped at her, at the bloody sword in her hand. She’d saved his life? This was the little princess Jerval spoke of, the girl he believed was overproud, filled with her own worth? He yelled at her, “Lady, thank you, but for God’s sake, get you to safety. I told you to hide yourself!”

  “If I had run, you fool, you would be dead.” And she laughed, pure and deep, wheeled around to drive her sword into the arm of another of Graelam’s men who was hacking his way toward John.

  Graelam was drawing nearer to her even though three men were on him. He was very skilled, she thought matter-of-factly, not at all surprised, and very strong. His endurance was amazing, probably as amazing as her father’s endurance when he had been Graelam’s age. She felt a man’s hand on her shoulder and jerked about, her sword coming up. “No, lady, I am not the enemy. I’m Jerval de Vernon. Please, let me take you out of here.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, and smiled at the young man whose face was streaked with sweat and trickling blood from a wound near his temple. Then he whirled about and motioned two of his men to join him.

  Three men surrounded her now. They wouldn’t let her free, hacking, hacking, keeping their backs to her, keeping her in a tight circle, guarding her with their lives.

  She heard a yell of fury, saw that Graelam was at the head of a knot of his men, his sword arm moving in great arcs as he fought his way back toward the doors of the Great Hall. He’d given it up, realized he couldn’t overcome all the men, and she knew he hated it, but he would escape, damn him. Abaric, holding his shoulder, his face without color, was staggering behind Graelam, and Graelam was protecting him. No, she couldn’t allow him to escape. She managed to break through her circle of protectors, simply because they believed her safe now and grateful for it, and ran toward him. Her skirt ripped up the side, but it didn’t matter. Suddenly Jerval de Vernon, the young man who had pretended to be Father Tolbert, was there between them and she froze for an instant. She really looked at him now, really saw him. By all the saints, she was looking at her father in his youth. This was a young man so golden, his eyes so brilliantly blue, his body large, so very hard with muscle, that he should have been her father’s son. He was big, sweating, his arm never tiring.

  “Let me by you!”

  He gave her a quick smile. “Not as long as I am still alive.”

  She tried to run around him, but he blocked her. Then he leapt toward Graelam, yelling, “Come, Graelam de Moreton, fight me!”

  Graelam saw Chandra behind Jerval de Vernon, and knew she wanted to take his place. For an instant, he felt deep pleasure at the sight of her, at the taste of her rage, the bloodlust in her eyes, the rip in her gown, the blood on that incredible fabric. Damnation, he knew he couldn’t get to her. He looked at the man who faced him now and knew he was a man of his own strength.

  “Damn you to hell and beyond,” he said low, and swung his sword in a powerful arc directly down at Jerval de Vernon’s bare neck. But Jerval’s sword blocked his. They hacked at each other, the clash of steel on steel ringing above the cries of the wounded soldiers.

  The great oak doors were flung wide. Graelam’s men streamed through them and down the narrow outside stairs, Abaric with them. Graelam drew Jerval with him. He heard his men getting the horses together, gathering their weapons and their supplies. No, he didn’t want it to end like this. He hated failure, tasted it, strong and hot in his mouth.

  With a sudden cry of rage, he plunged his sword downward with all his strength, shearing away Jerval’s shield.

  They were both panting, sweat blinding them. Graelam saw Owen, his father’s man, bold and coarse, weakening under the onslaught of a younger man. Graelam swung his sword in great arcs, pushing Jerval back, but he was too late. Owen fell hard into a pool of his own blood. Graelam lunged at Jerval as Owen’s death yell sounded lou
d in his ears.

  They were evenly matched until Jerval slipped on a slick of blood. He saw Graelam’s sword above him as he flailed the empty air to find balance.

  Suddenly, Jerval heard a soft, hissing sound. Graelam staggered back, his hand clutching at his shoulder. A dagger lay deep in his flesh. Jerval turned quickly to see that she had thrown it, that she was staring at Graelam, at the knife in his shoulder. She moved now to stand beside Jerval, her hand on his arm. “I’ll kill him now. Quickly, quickly, give me your sword.”

  Even knowing what she’d done with the dagger, even seeing her save Mark’s life, even knowing she’d saved his own life, he hesitated, unable to comprehend what she had done.

  “There will be another time, Jerval de Vernon!” Graelam grunted in pain as he jerked the dagger from his shoulder. He started to fling it to the ground when he saw it was Abaric’s knife, given to him by his father. He cursed, then shouted, “Your aim is that of a girl, Chandra, not a warrior. The next time, I shall teach you.” He laughed then even as his men pressed him back, out the great oak doors, into the inner courtyard.

  She grabbed Jerval’s sword and ran after him. Jerval grabbed her arm and pulled her down beside him. “No, don’t go after him. Even with your father’s men, we cannot be certain to defeat him. Let him go.”

  The men of Croyland and Camberley were pressing about them, running down the outside stairs into the bailey. They stopped then, shouting in victory as Graelam’s men, helping their wounded friends, managed to get onto their rearing horses and ride out over the lowered drawbridge.

  Save for the moaning of wounded soldiers and the soft wails of women in the Great Hall, there was silence.

  Jerval looked into her face. There were streaks of blood running down her temple, her hair was tangled about her head, her gown was ripped and covered with gore and filth. She was smiling. His father hadn’t lied. Jerval had never seen a more beautiful woman in his entire life. The little princess, soft and adored, helpless and submissive, that he had pictured in his mind’s eyes, died a swift death.