Gayle Eden (10 page)

She spent the morning reading, refreshing her mind as her mother would call it, and did lose herself in a few hours of perusing one of her maternal grandfather’s journals on medicinal plants. She had put the bound pages away when Lylie knocked softly on the door, and entered carrying a stack of garments in her arms.

She smiled at Illara and waved her to the bed. Laying out a supple tunic, long sleeved and hooded of wool, and the boots now made to her size, lined with sheepskin. There were wool breeches, as well as soft flannel under garments.

“They’re wonderful.” Illara fingered them. They would be comfortable and warm on her skin.

“We’ve cut the leather and dyed it for more. A good leather cloak, and leggings for riding. Two of the maids have been making a fancy one, black with silk embroider. Mag, the oldest servant, has a fine eye; she’s cut patterns for a whole wardrobe.”

Illara turned and hugged her. “Thank you.”

“Nonsense. We need the challenge, and there is none in sewing male habbericks and sack gowns.”

Illara went to the trunks at the end of the bed and opened one. She withdrew a burnt orange scarf and under it the breeches and silk tunic her mother had worn, along with the five-foot sheer scarf Ysola wore over her head.

She laid them out and glanced up at Lylie. “My mother oft wore these, with a long stripe silk robe that reached her ankles.”

She extracted the leather slippers and lay them aside. Then further in, she found the combs she was looking for, they were set with jasper stones. “These were in her hair when she died.”

Lylie lifted her hem and sat down touching the garments but her eyes were on Illara. She said softly, “You miss her, don’t you?”

“Terribly.” Illara’s eyes burned and tears poised in them. “I was a sore trial to her. Always more my father’s son, than her daughter. Nevertheless, she had so many friends, so many women around her. She used to always be assisting in preparing young women for marriage. I day dreamed of riding off to some adventure whilst she talked about such things. Her mind was….diverse, in that she could speak well on intellectual and spiritual matters, and still take part in traditional things expected of women. With my father also, she was someone else—someone separate, young and passionate.”

“She sounds lovely.”

“She was. In beauty, too.” Illara wiped at the tears that rolled free though she was not sobbing, only cleansing some of the pain. She said, “My father was that way also. A hard warrior, huge and commanding, and quite devout despite those who disdained his marriage to my mother, who was a Christian though there are those who believe those of her culture, cannot be true Christians. I used to observe him with the men, and see why he survived the battles he had. He had a focus that was unbreakable. And yet with me, he was indulgent, patient, amusing, and protective, and still with Mother, he was a lover and companion, almost a playmate at times.”

She began to fold up the clothing and put it back, lingering with her hands on the combs in the trunk while she added, “I wasn’t alone, in the sense I became alone when they died. I don’t want to go back to that, Lylie.” She met the woman’s gaze. “I want to belong to someone, and be with them, and have their vision, and purpose, mean something to me. I do not want to wait for life to need me. I want to make myself useful and be passionate about something I’ve invested emotions in.”

Lylie reached out and took her hand. The woman’s was rough but warm. “Life has chosen you, Illara. The Master, Pagan, has. It and he has brought with it a dark and tragic, oft terrifying string of truths.”

She seemed to consider a moment then whispered, “You did not see it and cannot imagine it. We all carry the smells and sounds, the moment when music and gaiety and feasting turned to screams and cries, blood and violence. And, the afterward, when smoke hung over the castle and city, the forest reeking of death and pain—the day the lads were captured, and bound—forced to run behind the horses with their feet already bleeding and clothing in rags.

Before they ever reached London, there were those who held them over in castles on the way, and the things visited upon them—mere lads—would drive a sane person to beg for death. I was hiding, having lost my boys the year before, they were like my own children to me, they and their sister’s children. It does not matter to me how I got to London or what I did once there, but at my first sight of them I was surprised that any human could look so tortured and still breathe.”

She shook her head and dropped Illara’s hands, rising to stand by the window, opening it slightly, to the cold, as if she needed air in her lungs.

Lylie said, “Ladies Rebecca and Faith were wed to Guy de Lyndon and Simon of Rotherham. Pagan was in training to be Rotherham’s Squire, as Randulf was still young and in his studies, but allowed to learn some skills of war. Pagan however, was the one always followed by the little ones—he carried them about on his shoulders, and taught them games, and was their favorite.”

Illara felt her breathing grow shaky, her stomach churned. She braced herself for the rest.

Lylie spoke in reflection and pain, “Lord Eadwyn had called a feast to celebrate Faith’s having a son. She had had only girls, and her sister had all boys. They were of ages three on, and everyone in the castle and town celebrated. The Master doted on his grandchildren, as did Lady Anne. The music, the food, the halls and castle, even the grounds were decorated brightly. And... Oh, the bells, they rang from the chapel. The monks came from St. Andrews also. However, when late evening came and the place was filled with knights and soldiers, some disguised in colors of the noble guest, the attack happened.

Lady Faith, who was armed, as well as the Mistress and Rebecca, at some point, saw her husband fall. She screamed and begged Pagan to cease fighting, to find the children—to keep them hidden. He was torn clearly, and it was only when Ronan—now, Randulf was nearly killed, trying to fight also that he grabbed him by the scruff and did her bidding. I let them all down the back tunnels and bolted the doors. I knew they would come out in the woods, and hoped they would be safe.

None of us knew that a crier read charges against them in the square, nor that soldiers and knights would go mad with lust and violence and attack those poor townspeople. It was days, I lost track, but days of burning, death, hangings, and worse.

Pagan, thinking the children safe in a stone cottage that he and Randulf had obscured with branches and leaves, had returned to assist his family. He was spied and chased for miles. He and Randulf were near the woods when the flames burst out. He tried to get to them—to the children, but the fire was too consuming. Sometime in that period, he was captured with his brother.”

“My God.” Illara arose and sat on the trunk, her arms tight around her stomach.

Lylie drew a deep, unsteady breath and released it. She turned and said, “I’m not their confessor, but I know Pagan felt guilt beyond bearing. I also know from Randulf’s nightmares after they were free, that when they were tied neck to neck and beaten, Randulf did not want to fall and thus kill his own brother—which was what the punisher intended, and Pagan did not—would not, buckle, and do likewise.

Nevertheless, at some point, Randulf being the slighter lost consciousness. When he regained it, he thought he had killed Pagan, for the rope was embedding in Pagan’s his neck. I do not know how much Pagan protected his brother in the tower either, nor how much Randulf did to save Pagan torment. However, there is a bond there and it helped them survive.

Whatever vengeance they extract is mild compared to what is owed. Whatever people see in that black armor, or in Randulf’s crimson—it represents to them, what was taken away, even their skin, which will never not remind them.”

Illara stared into the fire. “They were beautiful as young men, weren’t they?”

“Startling, aye.” The woman sat down on the window seat. “Not even their sisters compared. It was as if the best of Eadwyn and Anne forged them, and many oft would pass them and lose their stride for gawking. It makes it all the crueler, I think, that they were so blessed from birth.”

Illara could tell from the remnants of Randulf’s handsomeness and from her own husband’s lips and eyes. She said, “Lady Anne, she went to battle with her husband?”

“Aye. As did the daughters, between birthing.” She laughed quietly. “They were tall and proud women, and it was a sight to see them in their velvets and silks, riding among knights and guards. Among them, there was a massive army, and wherever they traveled, the family banners flew. Aside from the pride and power, they were in private, a close family, loving and amusing.”

The woman gestured over at the clothing on the bed. “I do not think he will encourage you to go with him. In fact, I think he will do all to discourage it.”

“Where has he been?”

“Killing himself in training, the exercise yards. Both Pagan and Randulf have risen at dawn and spent all the day in snow and mud, honing skills until they can scarcely drag themselves in to eat and bathe.”

Illara mused aloud, “All of the land called me cursed. Called him thus, and they assume that he took me here to visit horrors upon me.” She drew in a bracing breath. “Armored or nay, he made a show of championing me—of wedding me—and choosing me. I care not now, if they never believe me pure of body or blood, but I will not have them think that he is a torturer of women. Men fear him, and he has earned the awe, even the names, which serve his purpose. But I want to repay him—I want him to feel what I felt, when for one moment in six years of hell, someone made me feel wanted, worthy, and worth something more.”

Lylie dashed tears from her own cheeks and stood, sucking in a breath as her shoulders straightened. “Pagan will dissuade you.”

“He will try.” Illara stood also. She asked, “Can you help me. I will need certain things sewn by next week. And something special--”

“There are piles of riches in the storerooms.” The woman snorted. “We could garb eight queens and five princesses and still have too much left over.”

Illara laughed. She hugged her again. Stepping around, she searched for a quill and took some of the fine paper out of her mother’s journal. “This.” She drew a series of pieces and showed how it was to be sewn. “Black velvet and silk, and everything else to match. I need tunics and trousers well enough for long riding, and—”

“I’ll have it all completed. I’ve seen the greatest Ladies in their finery, and lads can be garbed well, and also for comfort.”

Illara went to find her cloak. “I’m going to the tower rooms.”

Lylie walked out with her and at the lower doors she said, “Perhaps you should wait…”

“If I wait, Lylie, Pagan will grow more distant.” Illara squeezed her hand and then went out into the snowy night.

Her hood up and her head down, she strode to the tower, across the yard that was lit only by torches scattered, where guards and others needed them. She was nervous and not at all confident despite her words, but she was her father’s daughter, her mother’s blood also, and she knew that one could not wait for life to start. Her mother used to say, one must choose their paths and passions and work toward them.

Upon reaching the tower, Illara stood a moment, looking up its barrel base and down to the heavy doors. This was his refuge and she hardly knew him despite the intimacy, and the story. She could further anger him for violating some sanctum that perhaps he needed to be kept separate.

Her hand lifted to the bar and slid it; fingers not steady nor breath either as she opened it and went inside. Stairs ran spiraled up the walls, and though dark, she saw the lowest floor was flagged. There was a half wall, the hint of tiles. She assumed it would be for bathing.

She started up the stairs, holding the hem of her cloak and careful of her footing. A second and third landing, then open circular chambers that were dark but furnished. Out of breath by the time she reached the top, she leaned against the wall and panted, resting, while her eyes adjusted.

There was light under the doorway, a slatted oak door that she eased open finally and let swing back.

Someone had built a fire in a half moon hearth, with a fur before it. There was enough luminosity in the room to see the armor and shields, the trunks and his back armor in the corner. Windows all around were shuttered save one, which was directly across from the center bed. Massive in size and low to the floor, the bed was hewn from beams, and spread with long strips of sewn together fur.

She walked around, still jumpy in her stomach, noting a bench and stool, objects that held leather bands, arm straps, and wrist guards. There was an aroma in the room of those herbs—and his scent, man and leather, with that bouquet of woods mixed in. Candlesticks, not decorative but holding tallow. In addition, a wardrobe, a pan, and jug for light washing. She let her fingers touch the one large shield, sensing its significance. Sitting on her haunches, she felt the scars and marks in it. Her scalp prickled, as if living vibrations were humming under the designs and paint.

Illara reached the bed and laid her cloak there. Dressed in breeches and shirt, her hair simply braided and tied, she walked to his armor—a gleaming deepest black with a fine line of silver edging it, the raven was hidden on the inside of the breast plate.

The gauntlets and chain mail was there, oiled and polished, and she left no fingerprints on it, merely staring at the visor on the helm, remembering that day on the field. She moved her gaze, and brought it back swiftly, seeing the satchel with the book slid out.