Dragon Tree (13 page)

There had been
moments, even in her weakened state, she had thought him handsome.
But here, with his chin dark with unshaven beard, his shirt unlaced
and gaping open over a chest that was comprised of band upon band
of hard muscle... a heated sensation washed through her, catching
her by surprise and making her tremble enough to set the ewer down
before she dropped it.

Tamberlane
noted the splashed wine and glanced over at Marak. “Are you certain
she is strong enough to assume household tasks?”

“She grows
stronger every day," Marak said, nodding. "She needs to use the arm
now in order to restore full movement. Light duties at first, to be
sure."

"Indeed, my
lord, I would sooner pour wine and—” she paused to cast hastily
along the board, littered as it was with the remnants of meals long
passed, “and see to the condition of your table rather than lift
the sacks of flour Marak has promised to burden me with.”

A dark eyebrow
arched. “Sacks of flour?”

“To restore
strength to the arm and shoulder,” Marak explained easily. “She
must begin to use them again if she is to recover fully. She
requires good, solid food as well. Broths and possets can fortify
the blood, but she needs meat and bread and pottage to fill out her
tunic again.”

Tamberlane’s
gaze turned unwittingly to Amie’s bodice and remained there longer
than was necessary, held hostage by the way her breasts swelled
against the cloth. When he recovered and looked quickly up into her
face, he saw that she, in turn, was staring at a particularly
succulent slab of roasted venison sitting in a puddle of its own
juices.

“There is more
than enough here to tempt any appetite,” he said. “Roland, slice a
fresh trencher and bring a chair.”

Amie looked at
the knight, aghast. “Oh no, my lord, I could not possibly—”

“Roland!”
Tamberlane held up a hand to silence her protest, then crooked two
fingers to bring the squire forward. “A chair, if you please. A
trencher and a clean drinking cup as well, if you can find
one.”

Amie glanced
sidelong at Marak, but the hooded figure remained impassive. She
was nervously aware of the strict proprieties adhered to in a
nobleman’s house wherein the seating arrangements were dictated by
the worth of one’s bloodline. Hers was impeccable, but Tamberlane
was not to know that. She had just put herself forth as a servant,
and servants, along with those of lower stations in life, sat well
below the salt, with only a few feet of the board separating them
from almoners and common beggars.

Tamberlane’s
tongue should have changed to stone in his mouth before issuing
such an invitation to a peasant wench, yet he had done so without a
thought.

No one else in
the great hall seem to pay much heed either. There were two long
trestle tables flanking the room and a third stretched across the
far end, but of the three or four dozen men scattered here and
there about the room, most were more intent on their food than on
their overlord’s social manners.

The other
singular oddity was that no one shared Tamberlane’s table. No
priest, no favored knights, no chatelaine or hostess, no silk-clad
ladies whispering their disapproval from behind raised hands.

For that
matter, there were very few women at all apart from those who
turned the spits over the cooking fire or stirred the soup pot.
Only one or two had cast a curious glance in her direction before
going back to their tasks. It was as if they were accustomed to
seeing strays taken into their midst... strays and outcasts who
came to Taniere to avoid questions and ignore protocols

Amaranth’s
gaze was caught and held again, this time by the large wooden
carving that loomed above the massive central fireplace. A full
thirty feet high and twenty wide, Amie had first mistaken it for a
tree, possibly with coats of arms suspended at the end of every
branch. But now, with her eyes grown accustomed to the gloom, she
could see that the branches were in fact the bodies of serpents
twined to form the thick trunk. And what she had thought there were
branches were long necks with snarling heads and short forearms
with claws extended from the paws.

“The dragon
tree,” Marak murmured, noting her stare. “You will find depictions
of it throughout the castle. The largest of all graces the outer
gates. The tree is wrought from iron made long ago, so the story
goes, in an enchanted forge. At one time each dragon held a bell in
its claws and according to legend, when a pure heart rings those
magical bells, the dragons will awaken to fly in six directions.
The dragon of the nether region will flee from despair and bring
hope. The dragon of heaven will return with the gift of true love.
And the four who fly to the corners of the earth will bring peace,
health, wisdom, and happiness.”

Marak’s words
held Amie’s attention until the squire brought forth a heavy
X-chair and placed it before the board. He offered her a shy smile,
then took up a dagger and sliced a thick trencher of hard brown
bread, setting it on the table to use as a plate.

"Come around,
girl," Tamberlane insisted, waving his hand. "Come around and sit.
Marak will join us."

“My thanks,"
the seneschal said, "but no. I have already broken my fast and
there is a mare in some distress down at the stables. I was on my
way there to attend the foaling now.”

Amie scarcely
noted his departure for her focus was fixed squarely on the haunch
of venison, the platter of cheese and apples beside it, and a
tantalizing bowl nearby filled with sugared almonds. Her appetite
had returned with a vengeance and she could feel the anxious spurts
of food-lust flooding her mouth.

After stabbing
the roast to locate the most tender pieces, Roland carved off
several thick slices of the venison. Tamberlane, meanwhile, cut
wedges of cheese and fruit, and set all before her along with his
own eating knife, which he graciously wiped first his sleeve.

“Eat,” he
ordered. “As much as your belly can hold.”

Amie needed no
further prompting. She began with delicate enough intentions,
cutting the chunks of meat into smaller cubes and slices before
transporting them to her mouth. But the delicacy vanished after the
first few heavenly mouthfuls of the roasted venison and soon she
was using her fingers, blissfully ignorant of the runnels of fat
that smeared her chin.

Tamberlane
watched, half-amused. While compliments and expressions of
gratitude could unsettle him, hunger was something he understood
and each time her trencher showed the lack, he passed more venison,
more roasted onions, more chunks of cheese.

When the
frenzy slowed and there was some sign of her belly rebelling, Amie
set the knife aside and leaned back, horrified to feel a belch
rising up the back of her throat. She contained it as best she
could within the cup of her hand, then glanced across to see if
Tamberlane had noticed.

The faint
crinkle at the corners of his eyes suggested that he had and
Amaranth did the only thing she could do: she smiled. It began as a
faint response to the curve she saw on the knight's own lips, but
then it spread and she could feel it coloring her cheeks with
warmth. It was something she had not done for a very long while and
she was reminded of the days when gaiety and laughter were as
common to her as light from the sun.

To cover her
embarrassment, and to do something to distract her from looking too
deeply into the shuttered green eyes, she took up a cloth and wiped
the knife before placing it back in front of her host. She then
stood and began sweeping the crumbs and scraps off the board. The
two huge wolfhounds watched hopefully, coming swiftly to attention,
their big brown eyes moving to watch the motion of her hands.

"Maude and
Hugo," Tamberlane said by way of introducing the hounds. "Toss them
a scrap of meat and they will be your friends for life."

Amie smiled
again and tossed each of the huge dogs some scraps of gristle. The
wolfhounds remained completely motionless but looked at once to
Tamberlane, who teased them a moment before making a gesture with
his hand. As one, they leaped forward and pounced on the scraps,
devouring them in a single pass, after which they watched Amie's
movements like hawks, catching any crumb that was flicked their
way.

When she had
cleared the board in front of her seat, she widened the circle to
include the area in front of Lord Tamberlane.

“You should
not tire yourself," he said. "Despite evidence to the contrary,
there are lackeys to do such things.”

“All
dust-gatherers, from the look of it.” The unveiled criticism in her
remark, more worthy of a chatelaine than a peasant wench, brought
Tamberlane shifting forward in his chair.

Amie, having
been the recipient on more than one occasion of a sharp cuff to her
cheek for speaking out of turn, flinched instinctively back, but he
was only reaching for the ewer of wine.

“You have a
keen eye, Amaranth, although we have not had much need in recent
months for clean linens and impeccable table manners.”

“I... I should
not have spoken thus, my lord. It was rude and petty of me to do
so, even in jest.”

“Oft times it
is the jest that carries the greater weight of truth. More
wine?”

Amie sank down
onto the chair again, uncertain what to make of this enigmatic
knight. He was no fool to be trifled with if he had fought and
single-handedly slain three of the mercenaries who had attacked the
village. Yet despite his years on Crusade and his reputation as a
slayer of dragons, there was no visible coats of arms on the walls,
no crest bearing his family colors, no tournament banners or
captured pennons hung behind the dais. The vast belly of the great
hall which could easily hold two hundred men, seemed empty and
quiet enough to hear the rushes crackling underfoot. Neither he nor
his retainers seemed to see anything untoward in inviting a lowly
peasant wench to break bread beside him... not only bread, as it
happened, but venison, a meat reserved by royal decree for those of
noble blood.

He claimed
there were sufficient servants, but even the smallest working
castle should have had half a hundred or more maids and lackeys
milling about, each with specific chores and tasks. Amie had not
counted enough to use up all her fingers.

Marak had
insisted that she was well protected inside Taniere Castle, yet to
the casual eye, there were not enough knights and guards present to
defend the remnants of the venison haunch from the two wrestling
wolfhounds.

By contrast,
Odo de Langois surrounded himself with hundreds of retainers,
knights, and guards. The hall was half the size but was always
crammed full of noisy, bawdy men slamming down tankards, groping
the dozens of wenches serving them food and drink. The rushes stank
from spilled ale and vomit regardless how often she, as chatelaine,
had ordered them swept out and changed. Odo drank from a gold cup
and used a jewelled knife for eating but there was no disguising
the fact he was a pig and came from a pig's litter. He had won his
spurs through battle, not birth, and the coat of arms that hung so
boldly over the dais had been granted, along with his castle and
holdings, through murderous favors he had done for Prince John.

“Marak says
you have grown weary of the patterns on the walls of your tower
room.”

Amie blinked
and gathered her wits about her again. “I confess, my lord, I do
miss having the sun on my face.”

“Roland—?” He
half turned to address his squire. “Is the sun out today?”

“Aye, my lord.
Tis a fine, warm midsummer’s day.”

“There you
have it then.” Tamberlane pushed back from the table and stood. “I
was about to follow after Marak to the stables and if the thought
is pleasing, you may accompany me as far as your yearning for
sunlight allows. Roland will attend upon you, and if you tire, he
will see you safely back to your room.”

Amie wiped her
hands on her skirt and nodded, curious to see what lay beyond the
doors of the shadowy hall. Moreover, she would need to know her way
out the castle gates and off the island when the time came to
leave.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Amaranth
followed Tamberlane up the stairs and across the stone landing to
the arched doorway, mindful not to walk too close. The opening was
cut low in the stone and Tamberlane had to duck to clear the
lintel, as did Roland who remarked that he had shaved the top of
his head more than once on the stone lip when they first arrived at
Taniere.

A second set
of covered stairs led downward, following the curve of outer wall
on one of the corner towers. The space was narrow and tight, a
defensive design meant to hinder swordsmen who sought to gain entry
to the keep uninvited. It was lit only by the natural light that
came through the meurtriers that were cut into the limestone
blocks. Both men had to keep their heads bowed the whole way down
and stay to the middle of the steps to keep from brushing their
shoulders against the stone,

At the bottom
of this pentice, another thick, heavily banded door opened into the
main courtyard and there Amie was met by the first warming rays of
sunshine she had felt for over ten days. Bright and hot, she was
forced her to raise her hand to shield her eyes from the dazzling
glare and it was as thus, through the spacings of her sunlit
fingers that she inspected the inner ward of Taniere Castle.

There was not
much out of the ordinary to see. The area directly in front of the
keep was cobbled in stone and extended perhaps two hundred broad
paces. It was bordered by a ring of outbuildings set against the
inner curtain wall. The yard was crowded, by Taniere’s standards,
with several women gathered around a central well winding up
buckets of water. Men pushed small carts filled with wood and hay,
even a baker crossed the ward balancing a large wooden tray stacked
with rounds of bread.