Gayle Eden (14 page)

His eyes shifted to the figure rolled in fur. Pagan had found Randulf watching Illara almost as much as he did. He noticed the thawing, even humor, between them. It took some observing for him to realize that she and Randulf had their own bargain. He gave her tasks and she did them, and after trying to step in a time or two, Pagan realized it was more a sport between them.

Once, on the journey, she had been brushing her hair, the texture rippled from her braids. The firelight glimmered on the mixed strands and he’d felt such a hunger for her, such a surge of need, that he had to walk a space away. Pagan had sat there, before her brushing, eating, and eyeing the curve of her jaw, the slim throat when she swallowed, and nearly groaned as she bit into an apple and laved juice from her lips.

He had returned to find her talking to Randulf whilst she braided her hair, and sat watching more his brother’s face, as she spoke of her parents, and of the love between them.

He, above all, knew how impossible it was to consider anything intimate when one was so flawed as to have to stay covered. It was some twist of fate, not forethought that gave him a wife, and certainly, he had dreaded any consummation. Though she lessened some of his anxieties by her own passion and responses, Pagan still could not unveil himself before her.

He knew almost what his brother was thinking—and he remembered the lies they told each other when the fear and horror perhaps seeing their reflections, came to mind.

For all that he wished for his former looks, Pagan wished more that he could have saved Randulf from sharing his scars. If he had left him behind—hid him somewhere else—if—a hundred of those ifs went through his mind. Pagan had not thought on love or imagined any future normalcy. He knew that Randulf did not, would not, dream of it.

However, for moment as Illara talked, he thought he saw a deeper longing in Randulf’s eyes.

Now of course, Pagan worried that perhaps Randulf’s abrupt decision was because of Illara. Because of things she represented, and perhaps promised to himself if he chose to take it. It was a difficult thing, being so intimately aware of his brother’s thoughts because of shared horror and pain, and present circumstances.

Pagan finally eased up and adjusted so that he could lay on the spread furs and Illara half across him. He held her with his arms around her, her leg over his, her sweet breath fanning over the thin linen shirt at his chest. Pagan had an enemy to unseat and two knights to best, in three days of events. He needed sleep. He found it soon, his body relaxing with the rhythm of her breathing.

Sometime in the night, Illara’s eyes opened and she sat slightly up, hearing eerie cries and thrashing. She glanced toward the shadows, but Pagan cupped her head and brought her down, murmuring in her ear, “It is Randulf’s nightmares. All will be well.”

She lay there, realizing Pagan cupped his hand over her ear deliberately, and though his heart beat in the other, it beat stronger and faster, as if he felt some invisible connection to what was happening to his brother. Without thinking, Illara began to soothe her hand over his chest. She felt terrible for Randulf, wanted to comfort him, but knew she could not. Nevertheless, her beast was hurting also, and him she could soothe. She fell asleep that way, her hand stroking and consoling him.

Chapter Seven

Much work came before entering Ryngild. Fortunately, for them, they found a place to prepare, another derelict stable, a mile from the castle and before the main township.

The warhorses were groomed and polished, splendid blankets and headpieces fitted on them. The brothers bathed and shaved whilst Illara sat on the wagon behind the stable. Beroun helped them dress in mail and armor, preparing for a grand entrance. Illara had her own to see to, but she waited her turn, realizing upon rising that both men were grim and quiet, their minds already on the Tourney grounds.

A weak winter sun was struggling through when Beroun emerged and told her, “You may have your turn.” He too was dressed in colors, black with a red cloak, a leather round cap on his curls. He was not allowed to wear a sword inside the Tourney field. But would take part in a pre-main events Vespers Tourney: A Tourney held on the eve of the larger, where the younger knight’s bachelor and squires had an occasion to exhibit their prowess, before the other knights, and assembled gallery a béhourd, using blunted, ash or whalebone weapons and modified armor.

She gathered her things and entered, seeing that they had refilled the pails from the well, which thankfully still held water. They were across the main road with their horses. Through the slats, she could make out the glimmering crimson of Randulf’s armor, and the black of Pagan’s.

Her emotions surged thinking of the two brothers—where they had been—how they had survived—and now, they would arrive as the envied champions, privately prepared to face men who had devastated their lives. Though she wanted them to have their satisfaction, she silently hoped that it would also signify the beginning of life and living for them both.

Illara stripped and washed her body, standing on the square of hide. She cleaned her hair and rubbed her body with jasmine oil. Opening the trunk, she located the chemise of red silk and slipped it over her head. The gown of rich embroidered black was snug sleeved and form fitting to the low waist. The skirt was split in panels to reveal the chemise, just as the neck laced with gold chain, so that the vivid red peaked through. The tight sleeves were divided from wrist to elbow for the same effect, and the boots made of dyed suede. She slipped the daggers into them.

Afterwards, she extracted the rippling silk cape, which hooked on with gold and ruby latches at the shoulders of her gown. The lining was crimson.

Propping the mirror up, she began to braid her hair, crowning her head with them, and leaving some unbraided at the back to lay straight down. Into the braids around her head, she fit jeweled pens, their gold setting enhancing the twinkle of jasper, emerald, ruby, and onyx.

Illara stared at herself, seeing for perhaps the first time some beauty there, some regalness that might make her intent a success. She touched her fingers down her slim throat and to the bodice of the gown, and then met her gaze again. “You are the wife of Pagan de Chevel. You are the wife of a great knight, and a brave--very brave, man.”

She sighed, put the mirror down, and the belt she latched low on her hips, fashioned in rings of gold with one long piece that resembled a spill of precious stones. She gathered her clothing and opened the crooked back door.

“Sblood!” Beroun nearly fell from the wagon where he was packing it.

Nervously she asked, “Did I do well?”

He stared at her wide-eyed. “Well, milady, if men don’t fall at your feet and women gnash their teeth in envy, I’m not a bastard.”

She laughed and flushed a little, reaching her things up to him and then pulling on her gloves. “I suppose I should join the men.”

“I’ve everything in hand. Your horse is ready. Pagan saw to it.”

She picked up her hem and went back through, her heart racing and breathing too shallow as she exited. The sun chose that moment to mist down, and Illara stood a bit outside the door adjusting her eyes to the light. When she could see the large warriors standing across in front of the horses, she slowly walked toward them.

* * * *

“By the blood,” Pagan heard Randulf whisper as they spied Illara. Nevertheless, he could not find his own breath, let alone his voice.

The sun suffused upon the richness of her gown and cape, that silk fluttering behind with every step. In her hair and around her head, there was a halo of sparkling hues. Tiny strands of sunlight-filtered hair floated near her brow and cheeks. As she came closer, the honey hue of her skin glistened like dew.

Illara halted just before them and let the hems flutter to the ground, her round breasts cupped by the gown and separated by the lacings with silk peeking through. Her waist, her hips, the shape of her thigh, was hinted at.

Pagan raised his gaze, having the visor up, and truly saw the beauty of the prize he had won. Her eyes seemed deeper than the most hidden grotto. Her lips shimmered, her brows, nose, the curve of her jaw, all regal and showing every drop of aristocratic blood. She was a mixture of that, he thought, and the warm nectar of liquid sunsets, which her mother’s blood had given her.

He watched her mouth and eyes as she glanced between them and husked, “I am the wife of Pagan de Chevel, the Black Knight’s Lady. His prowess is legendary and his name feared, but his wife is blessed…” her tone lowered, “Truly blessed to have him as her champion.”

“Illara,” was all Pagan could manage.

She turned to Randulf. “For you, I wear the red. I saw as I donned them, the significant of your choices, that it was for your kin, for the blood and the black for mourning. However, today I ask you; win not for loss, pain, and fury—but defy that fate in truth. Let your glory be that claiming the right to live and love. Don’t give them a day more to torment you.”

Her hand lifted, and she said, “I cannot be your mother, your sisters, those you lost. Nevertheless, I am a woman and I know a woman’s heart. Were I any of them, I would say there is none braver, none would make their name and blood more proud.” She moved toward Randulf, reached up, and on her tiptoes kissed his lips. Lowering herself, she stood back and next looked at Pagan briefly. There were tears in her eyes.

The wagon rumbled to the road, the team restless in their harnesses. Illara moved then to her horse, fitted with her beautiful saddle and a black blanket with gold and red edging. Pagan stepped around to assist her, but she did so herself, sidesaddle, adjusting the cape and hem to flutter down before taking the reins.

He mounted, turned almost at the same time that Randulf did.

His brother, as they moved to flank her and ride toward the road, turned, before lowering his visor and said to her, “I believe it can be said, and will be after today, that Pagan de Chevel won the greatest prize in England. As for me—I will take the offer you made in the courtyard—at Dunnewicke.”

Illara smiled and it was as if the sun could not compare to its brightness.

Pagan had no idea what she had offered, but that it moved his brother, also moved him. He was still too shaken by a dozen realizations to voice it.

They reached the wagon and rode behind though the village, expecting stones and the usual pelting. Later Pagan would put it down to Illara’s presence—that halo around her head and the proud tilt of it that seemed to freeze those mockers in their footsteps.

She turned her head slowly from left to right and met the eyes of children and hags, grim faced men alike, before facing forward, and Pagan thought his breast plate would dent with the swell of his pride in her.

Today—forever—she would be a distraction.

* * * *

The Tourney...

The Vespers Tourney took place the first day, and though not as large as other knight’s squires, Beroun did them all proud and won the notice and favor of a few aristocrats.

Afterwards, Illara tried not to pace in front of the tent flying the de Chevel banner. Several back was Randulf’s. He had hired two lads to assist him. As far as the eye could see there were tents and banners, standards and people. Ryngild’s castle of light stone was not as immense as Dunnewicke, but it had been built later, and there was a moat, a pair of thick rising towers and walls high and wide. It was opulent compared to older defense fortresses and for the Tourney, that riches was displayed full force.

Amid the people and horses, Page’s, squires, and knights, there were merchants and sellers of everything imaginable, booths and free roaming hawkers, musicians and acrobats. Fires burned, some roasting meats, and others to forge or merely keep the chill at bay. Children ran and servants rushed, and in the main field where she had gone with the brothers to sign for the lists, she had seen the Gallery already full, the nobles and merchants mingling and wine flowing.

It was different from the last she had attended, and Illara did not feel the trepidation for herself, but she had see Ryngild standing amid a crowd of knights—without armor, he was still impressive. His robes were green velvet and leather, black velvet in his doublet and cap. He was not so much a handsome man as she sensed a charisma about him. It was not the positive kind, but apparently gained him favor enough.

He was nearly as tall as her husband, possessing the brawn all well trained knights would have, and wore his wavy gold blond hair to his shoulders. He had the brow and jaw of a man who was aggressive—and yes, would cheat or betray to get what he wanted. His eyes were a cold and unyielding blue, though she thought many maidens likely swooned and thought them ideal. Only someone assessing him without any romantic notions would notice that coldness.

Beroun was sitting aside the tent, his eyes taking in the sights as he awaited Pagan. He had been given a pouch of gold from Pagan after the Vespers Tourney but was now fully concentrated on his lord’s success.

Illara had exited the tent, after Pagan pulled out that book. She knew he was reliving things and could not stand to witness it.

“I will escort you to the Gallery.” Beroun stood as they heard the horns, the crier announcing the events. Breath quivering she took his arm and with a last look at the tent, let him lead her through the masses. For once the turned heads, gawking and raised brows that came her way did not affect her. At this point Illara was simply nervous for Pagan.