Gayle Eden (18 page)

“Oh, no. No, he must not—”

“Yes. Listen to me. I have not much time. You must request the right to face your challengers. Pagan says you are to request to meet your accusers in a trial by combat. Though you will likely be denied participation, it is soon to be known you have a champion and that all charges will be proved or not, on the Tourney field.”

Lylie explained to her the laws of word against word. “Those who lose will be perjured, never again be witness for the law. ‘ Tis a last resort, Illara, but the only chance for any of you. And truth to tell, both Pagan and Randulf are ready to stand as boldly and openly as you have.”

“I just want him safe, safe, and alive. Please dissuade him, there may be—”

“Nay. There will not. Write your requests, and ‘tis probable you will be allowed to go to Dunnewicke. Request me as your servant. In addition, if there is any name, in any part of this earth—that is friend to you—write to them. Your girlhood friend, Sefare, whom did she wed?”

“An Italian nobleman.”

“Write to her. To anyone you recall as friend of your father.”

Illara nodded and though she wished Pagan had ridden off to some peaceful life, she realized it could never be, with the old charges and the betrayers still living. She knew that Pagan would never take exile so long as she lived.

She drew a deep breath and met those wise eyes in the same murky light. “I hope they do let me stand on the field. I would just as soon fight as go meekly. I had no malice in me when I killed that Baron, Lylie. He was going to murder my husband. He knew who Pagan was.”

“I know.” Lylie took her hands. “Do as instructed. I have all your things below and the girl has given me rooms off the kitchens. ‘Tis likely you will have a guard when moved, but methinks the king and Barons will approve of this answer. The king does not strike me as a man who will tolerate these conflicts for long. And I believe he will give the Marshal’s the authority to sanction this Tourney.”

“Very well.” Illara went to light candles as Lylie was leaving.

“My lady?”

“Yes.” Illara looked at her.

“I brought your tunics and leggings, your breeches—and I found your sword in the secret sheathe of your cape.”

Illara laughed for the first time in weeks. “I think I will shear my hair also, why not let them see how serious I am at standing with my husband.”

Lylie nodded. “We heard of your testimony and you have moved many I think, with your sincerity. Make them take you seriously, now. You have behaved as any knight would—for it is their oath to protect their liege and lord—to the point of murder. You must mention that.”

When she left, Illara wrote out her requests, five of them for each judge who heard her cause, and one more for the king. She signed it, your loyal vassal, and subject, daughter of Lord John of Thresford. She sealed them and opened the door, eyeing the first guard she saw then told him, “Have these delivered quickly. It is a matter of life or death. A matter, of the utmost importance.”

He looked to another guard, who nodded. Afterwards he bowed to her and left.

Illara closed the door and leaned against it. Pagan was alive. Wither they approved her no, this time she would live or die with him. She would not leave her champion’s side again.

She fell to the bed, realizing her legs were weak from relief and prayed, Thank you. Thank you this second chance—and for letting him live to regain the honor for his family, and to release the guilt, finally, that I know he carries over those whom he could not save. Give us all the strength and courage, to stand up to our enemies. If ‘tis possible, let me feel his arms around me once more.

Finished, she arose and lit a candle. Using the small cheese knife, she hacked away at her hair, leaving it chin length when done. She used the window to see her reflection, smiling again. She was not ashamed of whom she was, nor of what her father taught her. She was born woman, but her heart was simply human, like her spirit and her mind. She was not born to be idle and passive, to let life happen to her. She knew that as much from her days at Starling, as from what she had learned being with Pagan. If Pagan could be fearless, he and Randulf, so could she.

Chapter Nine

At Dunnewicke, Pagan and Randulf had assembled the men and every soul within the castle, to relay what occurred at the Tourney. Still in their dirt from travel, they told the story of Dunnewicke, of their family, the betrayal, and their time in the hands of their accusers. They told how Lylie had helped them escape, and reinvent themselves, and why they had.

Pagan laid out his recourse to them, making it clear that anyone who was not loyal should pack and leave Dunnewicke by nightfall.

Randulf said, “We have sent our testimony and our solution to the king. While we await his word, we go ahead to prepare the castle and grounds, and set in motion all that is needed for this Tourney to take place.

Men who wish to participate will be named in the lists—those who do not, other than those unable and more suited to esquire and serve the fighters, are exempt. As we prepare, should any knight or warrior show up and set his tent and standard near the field, friend, or foe, he is not to be harassed, but treated with curtsies and honor. It is on the field where all will be proved.”

They released everyone back to their duties, and sought their beds.

Pagan awoke at dawn to the tending of a young servant named Ruth, who treated his healing wound and mixed strengthening drinks for him. He would rather not expose his features to her, but he needed healing in order to fight.

In the Great hall later, he spoke to the steward and elder of the females.

“Until Lylie arrives, I have only the instruction that you prepare the castle for a great number of guests. Open the wings, and do what you can. The storerooms overflow with fabrics, carpets, and comforts. Make them for any of the aristocracy or nobility. I will send two men to the nearest market and our hunters will go out once a week. If the worst comes from this business, my brother and I thank you for your loyal service and for your hard work on our behalf.”

The steward bowed. “We will accomplish it all, and on time.”

“I have no doubt.” Pagan nodded. “I’ve my younger men seeing to the barracks and a field will be prepared despite this poor weather. Until the Tourney, the men will be oft in training and their food will be prepared in the yard, in pits and cauldrons, thus you will be asked only to provide bread and mead to them at morning and days end.”

After Pagan dismissed them, he went to the solar, slowly passing the bathing chambers that smelled faintly of Jasmine. He leaned in the doorway, his gaze going over the bed and her trunks, two capes hanging on a hook. He thought of Lord John and felt a keen responsibility to the man’s daughter, aside from her being his wife. Pagan could think of no other way to free her. His own life was the cause of her action, and he carried enough guilt from his young manhood.

He sighed heavily and uttered, “I thank you for her, John. I thank you that she exists. I am heartily sorry for this business, for I sought to free her, give her what you would want, and instead have compelled her to this…. I can do nothing, save give up my former plans and finally face the past. I hope I may honor my family, and you, on that day.”

Pagan turned to find Randulf standing there, having obviously heard his words. Though masked, his brother was in a linen shirt and breeches.

“I was on my way to make use of the pool.”

Pagan nodded and their eyes held.

Randulf said, “If we live through this, I will never more deny my name. I earned my glory as Ronan. It was in that name of my birth I found freedom and triumph.”

“Aye—”

“And,” his brother went on. “If we live, and all our rights are restored, our prizes and deeds kept. I must be about my life and you yours—with Illara.”

“What was your dilemma with her on the journey?”

Randulf turned his head to stare somewhere to his left. A sure way to hide his emotions, as he and Pagan were so well at reading each other’s souls at a glance. He said uncomfortably, “She told me in the courtyard that day, that if I could trust her, she could love me, only differently. I gave her that leave—before we entered Ryngild.”

Pagan swallowed. He rasped, “If I never see her again, I thank her the most, for that. She has some uncanny ability to understand our bond, and whilst I have struggled through this intimacy of marriage, she has also shown me that she can care also for you. I do not know, Randulf, what hand of fate made her mine. But I know that I forget what a scarred creature I am, when she touches me.”

Randulf nodded and met his gaze. “Let us sup at the Lord’s table tonight.”

“Aye. And every night until we are denied it.”

Pagan came forward and they clasped wrists, but Randulf hugged him, as he had not since they were small boys. He said emotionally, “We are Eadwyn’s sons. Let us speak no more of death. From this moment, we fill the role we have earned as champions.”

Pagan agreed and after they parted, he left to return to the courtyard. He counted heads as he walked, noting that none of his men had left. When he found Ivo, Pagan sent him to the markets. Then, had Beroun gather a party to hunt. He took the rest to the field, where they worked until sundown marking it off.

Going inside at days end to bathe and break his fast with his brother, the next morning both were in attendance to work on the field with the men. It required much dragging and leveling, and because of the drizzle, it was muddy work.

In a week’s time, they had clear weather, enough so that the awnings could be erected to protect the ground afterwards. A berfrois, or grandstand, was constructed above the field, over the level of the lists, for housing the ladies and other noble spectators of the gallery. For another week they worked from dawn until dusk, using much from the abandoned city to build what was needed.

It was on a Sunday when Pagan got word via Lylie that Illara would be arriving with a small guard, and that she had been allowed to ride with and attend her.

A day later, those words were echoed from the king—who had returned the book, and had written after the formal greetings and official recitation; Let this business be dealt with. I will have my witnesses in attendance and have answered any who put the charges to me, that they should make their stand at Dunnewicke. I have read your accounts and pray God you may absolve Eadwyn, as he was as close to me as a brother. His accusers I do not call to account, for it is your word against theirs, and this be the better solution for all. You have your overlords in the territory and those over the Baron’s lands, where your wife stands accused. I have received your generous recompense of any fines on her behalf. I ask, for the peace that must be reached, that you keep the pretense that she is under guard, but give you your rights as her husband and lord, to handle her part in the contest as you see fit.

I mean to have peace among my lords and knights, and old wounds, no matter how raw, must be healed. My only presence in this challenge will be the naming of the Marshal, one Simon Elsy, Earl of Langcroft, Baron Halcot. He will writ the decided upon weapons and rules you require, and hold the law of the land in his hands, for victor or craven.

The letter was signed with the Royal seal.

Pagan took it to his brother to read before placing it in a trunk.

He knew of Halcot, and he knew the king chose wise and slyly, for Halcot had been fostered with Eadwyn as a boy. He had been away in Syria during the devastation of the family. The king in essence washed his hands of any responsibility, and let the law of the land stand, allowing those in authority to wield the power. However, perhaps knowing the overwhelming odds against them, had assured a judge would officiate who bore Pagan and his brother no malice.

Pagan went on with the work, as did the men and servants. There was much to be done. On the day his guard spotted Illara’s group, Pagan shaved and bathed, donned his mask and clean clothing and boots, and awaited in the courtyard. His guards were on the wall, and the sound of Randulf training the younger men in the exercise yard echoed with the ring of hammers and the squawk of geese.

As the first entry to the gatehouse opened, with each length of chain released, his heart thundered louder and harder. He had his feet planted, his hands clasped behind his back at ease. Yet every inch of skin and sinew was tense, and every beat of his heart caused blood to rush through his veins.

He heard his captain call out, and the last gate opened. Three armed knights were on either side of the two women. Illara in the front, and Lylie in the back. The horse Illara rode was a palfrey of dappled gray.

The party halted. The first guard on the right handed him a sealed parchment. “By the grace of God, by order of his majesty King Henry III, I place in your custody one Illara of Thresford, who stands accused of the murder of Baron Ryngild. Until such time as her innocence or guilt is officially established, she is to remain within the confines of Dunnewicke castle and its grounds. Swear you, as lord of this demise, to uphold the king’s commands?”

“I swear.” Pagan could scarcely believe it. They were releasing her into his charge!

The guard dismounted and helped Illara down. Lylie was likewise set down. Then the man signaled, and the other guards released her goods and baggage from their mounts. They mounted again and turned in unison, leaving the way they had come.