Warrior's Song Page 5

  He said slowly, “You are Lady Chandra, daughter of Lord Richard de Avenell?”

  She helped him to his feet, then said as she looked up at him, “I am.”

  “Graelam was wrong. Your aim was that of a warrior. It was your anger than blinded you.” He turned to Mark. “Send some men to the walls. We must be certain that Graelam takes his leave. Bring up the drawbridge.”

  He turned again to look at the woman he was here to consider for a wife. If he had not seen her fight with his own eyes, he would have thought himself in the presence of a delicate young maiden, one in need of protection and rescue. Ah, but she didn’t need anyone. The bloodlust was fading from her eyes, and she slowly relaxed her grip on the bloody sword, letting it hang loosely at her side.

  She said, cocking her head at him, “Who are you, Jerval de Vernon? How came you to be here?”

  So her father hadn’t told her of his visit. He said slowly, “I am here to visit your father, an ambassador from my own, Lord Hugh de Vernon.”

  “You are welcome here, as either priest or warrior.” And she punched her fist into his arm, threw back her head and laughed. “We won!”

  Jerval looked over to see Mark staring at her, just standing there, staring.

  “Yes,” he said, “we won.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “Crecy, tell me the truth,” Lord Richard said as he absently pulled the ears on his huge wolfhound, Graynard, who was lolling at his booted feet, “you swear that he did not touch her?”

  “I swear, my lord. He wanted her in marriage, honorably. He did tell her precisely what he wanted of her, what he wanted her to become, what he would allow her to become. But I think he did that because he took pleasure in her rage and in her spirit even though she was helpless against him. I think that when she threw the dagger into his shoulder, even that amazed and pleased him.”

  “Is the man an idiot?”

  Crecy had to smile. “I think he is so fascinated by her that if she stabbed him through the heart he would compliment her strength before he died. But he is gone now, my lord.”

  “The son of a bitch,” Lord Richard said as he looked across the Great Hall at his daughter in conversation with Jerval de Vernon, a young man who made him feel as though he was looking at himself twenty years before. Not yet twenty-five he was, and he had already gained a reputation as a fearless warrior, a man of honor, a man to trust at your back. And he is nearly as comely as I was at his age, Richard thought. For a moment, he felt jealousy sear through him at what this young man was, at what he would become, and most importantly, that he would have Chandra.

  He said to Crecy, the taste of his own voice rancid with jealousy, “I knew the day would come when I had to give her to another man.” He hadn’t said that exactly right, he thought, though Crecy hadn’t even raised an eyebrow at his words. Richard scratched Graynard’s head, cleared his throat, and tried again. “She is turned eighteen now, old enough to have been wed for three years, and I know I must let her go. She is not meant to remain a virgin. I will give her to Jerval de Vernon. Look, Crecy, he hangs on her every word. He is laughing.”

  “I am not surprised. He also saw her fight. It did not repel him.”

  “No,” Richard said slowly, “I would not have selected him for her had I believed that he would see her as unnatural.”

  “You saw him when he was only twenty years old, my lord, scarcely a man grown, newly wearing his spurs. How did you know what manner of man he would become?”

  Richard said simply as he rose and shoved Graynard aside with his boot, “His is my mirror image. His father, Lord Hugh, even told me—jealousy leaping out of his mouth as he spoke—that his boy was just like me. I believed him and I did spend three days at Jervel’s side, watched him fight, jest, drink.” Richard paused a moment, and he frowned. “I did not watch him wench. I hope he does not—” He broke off, then added, “And, I know to my soul that Jerval de Vernon will want her until death drags him from her. Now, where is my wife? I would know why the bitch disobeyed my orders.”

  Crecy, the only human in this huge holding who was the recipient of Lord Richard’s true feelings about everyone, said, “I believe she is with her ladies. She sews. She plots. She probably keeps John close to her skirts.”

  “More than likely she is hiding from me. I should beat her, Crecy.”

  “You might well find your food poisoned if you do, my lord, or a dagger slipped between your ribs some dark night.”

  “True enough,” Richard said. “But there is one thing I can do. I am sending John to the Earl of Grantham within the month. It is time. I fear that she’s turning him into a mewling little puke.”

  “It is well past time to send him away, some would say, my lord.”

  “I wanted to toughen him up, but I realize that he will not do much of anything that is admirable until I have him away from his mother.”

  “I will write immediately to Lord Grantham, my lord,” Crecy said, and bowed deeply.

  Lord Richard frowned toward his daughter. “Yes, see that you do, Crecy. I wonder what they’re talking about.”

  There was a wicked glint in her eyes even as Chandra was saying with all the earnestness of a penitent facing a priest, “It is said that I am very nearly amazing with a bow and arrow. Perhaps even beyond amazing. My father taught me, and there is no one better than he is. I am giving you warning, Jerval, if you want a competition, your manhood will suffer grave sorrow. Perhaps you will even weep in your humiliation. Dare you take the risk?”

  The little princess, Jerval thought, wanting to kiss that delicious smirk off her mouth. Did his father truly believe that he would not want her if he knew about her warrior skills? That he would be appalled that she would insult his own skills and his manhood in one breath and make him want to laugh at her cockiness in the next? Probably so. Men saw women in one way only, and he knew he always had, but that was different now. All in the course of one single evening, his life had changed irrevocably. Perhaps he would allow himself to judge her, a woman, by some of the standards a man was judged by. That was difficult, when it came right down to it. But to listen to her bravado, to play at all her games, it amused him, pleased him to his soul, and made him want to strip off her clothes and kiss every inch of her. But he’d also seen her fight like a man, seen her with his own eyes yell her triumph, seen her splattered with blood, and yet she still looked at him as only a big playmate, when all he wanted to do after he kissed every patch of her was to lie with her on that grassy knoll just beyond Croyland’s walls.

  He was harder than the stone beneath his feet. If there were an enemy behind him, it wouldn’t be a good thing. He shook his head at himself.

  She hit her fist into his shoulder. “Attend me, sir. Do you wish to grovel at my feet when I have made you look the veriest beginner?”

  What was she talking about? Oh yes, a competition—bow and arrow. He smiled, wanting to stroke his fingers over her face, wanting to kiss her mouth, feel his tongue play between her lips. By all the saints, he was in a bad way. He saw that her head was angled to one side, that she was looking up at him, eagerness and laughter in her blue eyes. Nothing else, dammit. A playmate, he was naught but a playmate to her, but no matter. It was early days and despite her prowess, her courage, her audacity—or perhaps because of them—she was innocent in the ways of women, appallingly so. He said easily, straightening taller so that he looked down on her more, “You bray like a cocky young lad. I will send you weeping into the dirt, Chandra, when you lose to me. You are a girl and I am a warrior. You haven’t a chance.”

  He watched her puff up—her pride, her defenses all in place, ready to bash him—when Lady Dorothy said from behind her, “I trust you are thanking this blessed young man for saving us, Chandra.”

  Jerval watched her stiffen as taut at a bowstring, all the fun, all the laugher, dying out of her face. There were problems here between mother and daughter, big ones. Mark had told him that Lady Dorothy had willingly given her over to
Graelam, had come out of her hidey-hole, disobeying Lord Richard’s express order. What kind of mother would do that?

  Chandra said, her voice carefully neutral, “If he hadn’t come, then I would be in Cornwall and you and John would still be safe here at Croyland. Only I would be gone.”

  “There is that,” Lady Dorothy said, and frowned. “Still, the young man is here now and things have changed. We must all adapt.”

  By the saints, Jerval thought, was she going to say something about why he had really come to Croyland? No, he couldn’t allow that—it was too soon. Jerval said quickly, “Ah, Lady Dorothy, this daughter of yours has thanked me for saving her until I have grown dizzy with the repetition of it. I beg you not to encourage her to thank me more. I feared she would burst into tears, she holds me in such high esteem. My head aches from all her gratitude.”

  Chandra poked him in the ribs, hard. She was very nearly laughing at what he’d said. He was charmed to his feet when she said, “He knows his own worth, ma’am. I do not need to add to his conceit.”

  “You should if it would perhaps reduce your own,” Lady Dorothy said. She looked up then to see her husband striding toward her. She said quickly, “ Chandra does not thank men, sir. If you think that she did, you are wrong. You are blinded by her beauty, which is of no importance at all, as anyone with a working mind knows. I crave solitude. I believe I will go to the solar now. There is that new tapestry I have designed.”

  Lord Richard saw his wife look back at him, then hurry away toward the tower stairs. He had believed her to be in her solar and now, likely, that was where she was going. He wondered what she had said to Chandra and Jerval. He knew he wanted to beat her. Maybe this time he would.

  What would her father say to his wife? Chandra wondered, seeing Lord Richard turn to stride after Lady Dorothy. I hope he locks her in her bedchamber for a week, she thought, but of course he wouldn’t. “I am going riding, Jerval,” she said, turning back to face him. “If you wish to come with me, I will show you our beautiful countryside.”

  “I don’t suppose you will challenge me to a race?”

  If she hadn’t thought of it yet, he could tell by the quick lighting of her eyes that she was thinking it now. Excitement, anticipation, both were there, and he wondered, not for the first time in the two days since he’d first seen her dressed as a bride in this Great Hall, what this damned girl had done to him.

  They did race, of course, and Wicket beat out Jerval’s destrier, Pith, by the length of his shadow, showing bright and stark against the black rocks that lined the hills above the beach. Oddly, she only crowed for a moment; then she frowned at him, even waved her fist under his nose. She was wearing a tunic and breeches, a belt around her waist and a knife in its sheath fastened to that belt, her boots cross-gartered to her knees. To have to untie cross garters, then to pull down breeches so he could make love to a woman—he’d never before done that, never even considered such a thing. The thought made him hard, something he was growing used to, then made him smile. Her hair was windblown, nearly pulled out of its thick braid. Her lips were chapped by the harsh winds and he said, “Have you cream for your mouth?”

  “What?” She touched her fingers to her lips. “Oh, I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  He wanted to kiss her chapped lips, he wanted to lift her off Wicket’s back and lay her on her back, over on that soft bed of green spread beneath those pine trees. He could see himself now pulling those breeches off her, could see how she would lift her hips as he did it, could see himself coming over her. Oh, God. He reached out his hand and lightly touched his fingertips to her mouth. She cocked her head to the side, staring at him. “It matters. Your lips are dry. Have your servant give you cream.”

  “Surely it isn’t that important.” She gave him a strange look, her own fingertip now rubbing against her mouth. What did he care about her mouth? Her lips were chapped, just that, nothing more.

  “When you are given something perfect, something beautiful, then you should take care to keep it that way.”

  “You are saying that I must take special care of my mouth because it is perfect and beautiful?” There was absolute astonishment in her voice.

  “Yes, see to it.”

  Then she remembered and said, waving a new fist, “You let me win. I saw you pull Pith back at that last turn.”

  “I didn’t want to knock you off your horse,” he said easily. “Had I continued, I would have hit you and—”

  “The chances are that I would have sent you flying into the dirt. I do not like it that you tried to play the chivalrous knight. Don’t do it again.”

  Jerval wasn’t stupid. He knew she was serious, and he knew he couldn’t let it pass with simple silence, a jest, or a smile of amusement. He had to apply the spurs, but gently, slowly. Beginning now. He said, perfectly serious, “Or what will you do?”

  Without hesitation, she said, “I will wrestle with you and bend your arm behind your back until you howl.”

  Wrestle with her? As in the way men wrestled? He simply shook his head at her as he saw himself pulling her beneath him, flattening her with his body. No, he couldn’t imagine a girl wrestling like a man. In bed, surely, but in jest and in pleasure, not the way men wrestled in the practice field, sweating and grunting and trying to maim the opponent. No, surely—he couldn’t help himself. He forgot about beginning to apply some limits to her, for he was equally amused and excited, and said with utter seriousness, “I will rub your nose in the mud before you manage to do that.”

  She laughed and laughed. He watched her kick Wicket in his lean sides, watched her horse leap forward, heard her laughter floating in the soft air back to him.

  “I mean it,” he called after her, but she didn’t hear him. Perhaps, if she pushed him, then that was exactly what he should do.

  Before the midday meal, Jerval found himself with Lord Richard, warming himself in front of the fire set in the great fireplace. “She wants to wrestle with me. It is not a jest—she means it. This is impossible.”

  Richard thought it was rather impossible himself. “If she wants to wrestle, you will have no choice, Jerval. You will simply have to control yourself. Naturally she will try to kill you. She is good. I taught her. When she sends pain crashing through you, your mind will forget your lust.”

  “She doesn’t realize she is a woman.”

  “No, she does not. That is why you are here. It is time for her to learn.”

  “You set me a problem, my lord, a very large one.”

  “Perhaps,” Lord Richard said very deliberately, “just perhaps I should have given her to Graelam.”

  “No, damnation, no! He would have tried to break her—or perhaps not. I don’t know what was in his mind. But he did not want her to—”

  “To what?”

  “I don’t know. It no longer matters. I drove him from Croyland. He lost and he will never have another chance at her.” He looked into the fire and stretched out his gloveless hands to warm them. Large hands, Richard thought, competent hands, strong and sure. Graynard tried to shove him aside, but Jerval held firm and the dog collapsed next to him on the brick hearth, his huge head on his paws.

  “She craves freedom,” Richard said then. “She always has. Even as a child, she wanted the wind tearing at her hair, all the speed her pony could give her, wanted to throw her small spear farther than my squire could throw his own. Ah, I can still remember her laughter, her absolute joy, when she won her first knife-throwing competition. She beat six young men, and I will tell you, their resentment was palpable even though they knew she practiced more than they did, knew that she wasn’t like other girls, knew that she wanted victory at least as much as they did. One of them even said something to her about going back into the castle and sewing. She bloodied his nose. Just one blow with her fist, and he was yelling his head off. Of course I had taught her how to use her fists.”

  Actually, Jerval had no difficulty at all picturing that scene.

  “
I have never reined her in, never stopped her from doing something she wanted to do. She wanted a suit of armor, and so I had one made for her. The flat rings don’t quite overlap, so there is more space between them and thus less weight. In a true battle, she wouldn’t have the same protection a knight has. But she is content, and when she jousts, there is at least some protection. Naturally, my men would let themselves be slaughtered before they would ever take the chance of hurting her.”

  Jerval couldn’t begin to imagine a girl wearing armor. His disbelief was so obvious that Lord Richard hurried to add, “She rarely wears the armor, just occasionally on the practice field when there is jousting practice. Some of the men even demand that she wear hers when they wear theirs to keep the games fair. She gives no quarter, you know. I taught her that compassion only comes into play when your sword is pressed against your foe’s gullet.

  “But attend me, Jerval. There is no meanness in her, no pettiness. Perhaps some jealousy of another’s better skills, certainly, but what is wrong with that? That just makes her work all the harder. She does not recognize her own beauty. Even if she did, it would not count greatly with her. It is what she has to offer, what she can gain by the skill of her own hand, her own wits—that is what she values.”

  “As I said, you have set me a problem.”

  “You will decide if the problem is too great for you to deal with.”

  Lord Richard had struck him hard in the face with that challenge, one, Jerval thought, that he knew he would not hesitate to take on. Dear God, what was he getting himself into?

  Lord Richard left the young man, who, in truth, looked like Chandra’s brother, and went to search out his wife, who had been hiding from him for two days now. He’d nearly caught her once, but she’d gone to the jakes, not her solar. He found her in her solar this time, sitting tall and proud in her high-backed chair, ready, he supposed, to face him.