Gayle Eden (4 page)

“If the truth was not revealed when this castle rang with swords, and ran with blood. If it was not proven whilst we were dragged out and taken to the tower—for more of their justice—it never will be. We were but lads, Randulf, and considered sons of a traitor. Our uncles and cousins were not spared, nor were any who defended our family. We died in infamy, at the glorious ages of 12 and 14. It is only through the ashes, and what we have ourselves raised to, that we have anything of honor.

I will take the fear they give and the insults, and I will take their prizes and gold and outfight their knights—because I am owed it, for the torture and pain my own people inflicted upon me.”

Hearing that harshness, Randulf felt it echo in his soul. “At least you have your satisfaction.”

“You will have yours too, brother. I will keep our bargain. You shall have your time, as I have had mine. I have brought down everyone who came against our father, and have given you the names of those who testified that we rose to plot a rebellion against the king. You have a dozen betrayers to crush.”

Randulf sat down and pulled on his boots. “I hope that is soon.” He stood and met his brother’s gaze. “I still have the taste of nightmares in my mouth every morning.”

They gathered their things and ascended the stairs, going by way of a long back hall in opposite directions. Randulf would go to the right tower and likely spend the whole of the evening training with the men. Pagan took the left and climbed the curving stairs to the top most chambers.

There he set the items down and peered around at the multi windows running nearly floor to ceiling. In the center was a large bed and by it two furs, everything else here was weapons, armor, chain mail, and the implements of war and battle. On the walls were the great shields the Lords of Dunnewicke carried into battle, with the sword next to it, going back to the first Lord who built the castle.

The center of the room held his father’s shield with the black raven on a red background and a bar of black; a battered and scarred shield that had deflected blows meant for his king. The sword had been re-forged and it was the one Pagan carried, because he equaled his father’s height and size and could handle such a large weapon.

The best Smith had designed the black covering and mail that sat on the trunk in the corner, gleaming under the candlelight. A book, much decorated and thick spilled out of the satchel next to it as it was Pagan’s habit to read the names of those who died in the betrayal. A list that included his parents, two sisters, their husbands and six small nephews and nieces, who burned, hiding in the forest.

Standing by the open windows, Pagan stared down at the back of the keep where Illara’s chambers were illuminated with ocher light. His fist curled into the stone, fingers marred with striped scars. His mind was on the time of blood and death. Even in his memories the screams, cries, smoke, and sobs would always be there.

When Pagan and Randulf were lashed and tied, led away, behind the Sheriff’s horse, he recalled their clothing was ragged, hair scorched and feet bleeding and he recalled looking back over his shoulder as the city and forest burned. The forest where he had taken all the children to hide.

Breathing constricted in Pagan’s muscled chest. His heart thudded hard enough to threaten his ribs with breakage. Rage was a bitter gall on his tongue. The barons and knights who had turned against his father, Eadwyn—some had ended up fighting in de Montfort’s rebellion at Evesham, and though he cared not for anything save his vengeance—not even his country at the time—when he may well have supported the Baron’s cause, if his life had been blessed instead of cursed—and had not a few of them been betrayers of his family—it gave him scant satisfaction to meet them in battle and see fear in their eyes, having been in the prince’s army.

The king had restored all the rebels’ lands and inheritances since 1266 via the so-called Dictum of Kenilworth. They were allowed to repurchase their land at a price, depending on the depth of their involvement in the rebellion. They got off much easier than the trap they had once set for Eadwyn.

It was a horrible betrayal. They had sat at the Lord’s Table in this castle, and were accounted friends. However, jealousy, envy, and more so resentment of Eadwyn’s closeness with the king, since they traveled to the Holy Land and back, had brought out the worst nature of those who feared Eadwyn’s influence and envied him when Dunnewicke received its charter, and became a great city market place.

Men had their own reasons, hundreds no doubt, for wanting the powerful family brought down—and there was no better way than to plot and manipulate, to plant enough evidence of treason.

Pagan shifted his eyes to the moonrise. Days were shorter in winter.

He turned away and drew on his long wool mantle, pulling the hood forward before exiting. Going back the way he had come, he exited and nodded to his hired guards—hired because most knights would not serve Dunnewicke. Not because of the lies, but because of the stigma. Thus Pagan and Randulf spent years training men who would have never risen to that elite realm of knighthood. They could judge the character and bravery of a young lad, and those who were brave indeed answered the summons of Pagan de Chevel. He trained his men well and paid them better. Those here were proud to be so, or else they would have been turned away during the first years of training.

Entering the great hall, Pagan saw Lylie at her needlepoint by the fire. The lower tables were full of men; eating and drinking as they had changed their duties for the day.

She peeked up at him, firelight playing over her features, and he thought again of the risk she had taken to see them saved. She was born at Dunnewicke, her mother holding the office of chambermaid, and she herself a friend to the family as much as servant. Lylie had hidden in the dungeons during the killings, along with sacks of riches she had dragged down into a well like hole she lived in until the last solider rode away.

It had taken her time to get to London, but once she had, she had stopped at nothing, sacrificed everything, to see them free. In freedom, they had to die, and it was her own son’s bones they planted in the cell.

“Will you not sup at the table tonight?”

Pagan shook his head. “I will find the kitchens before I sleep.”

She smiled. “You never sleep.”

“Not overmuch.” His answering smile was hid in the cowl. He raised his hand and proceeded up the stairs, passing the bathing chamber and hearing the echo of Illara’s voice when they had conversed, remembering his private urge to see her wet and nude, and how hastily it had driven him from the chamber.

Pagan approached the solar door and stopped, easing it open and standing there, looking around at the two lit candles. The empty bed caused him a moment of concern, before he thought to check the fire, to make sure it burned, and noticed her asleep on the fur before it.

Carefully closing the door behind him, Pagan walked silently to stand looking down at her. She was half on her side, her shoulders back on the fur and hands slightly outward with upturned palms. Her hair, that wine and white streaked mane, was fanned out, tangled somewhat. As the fire picked up light and shadow in it, it also bathed her face and throat, the exposed chest to the low neckline. Her skin was a warm hue, lips more apricot than pink, a slim nose, stubborn jaw, handsome features that relayed strength. Her brows arched over eyes he knew were a moss green, the most unique eyes, like looking into a forest grotto, hidden and profound.

He also judged that under her clothing, the five foot and five inches of her was not thin, but healthy, and conditioned, toned with muscle. She was like a sleek female cat or doe, and as he glanced at her palms, Pagan could distinguish what calluses were from her pittance, the chores, and scrubbing, and which were from the familiar holding of sword or sling.

Pagan turned and doused the candles with the cone shaped snuffers, leaving the bed in shadows. He stirred the fire, pushing the larger ends of the log where it would burn overnight. He went to his knee and lifted her, finding her weight so slight and his hands so big on her thigh and arm, that it made him extra careful when he placed her on the bed.

Pagan eased down the fur and linen sheets, intending to scoop her under.

However, Illara’s lashes fluttered and she murmured thickly, “I cannot sleep in this gown, ‘tis too hot.” Her hand absently wiped at her brow and neck as she wet her lips sleepily.

He stared at the ties of the bodice, and then pulled them, his eyes on her face while he worked the lacing that would widen the garment. Pagan was hot, his own skin dewed by the time two tight, rounded, breasts were visible. She sighed, and so he began pulling it off at the shoulders, watching her lift her arms free of the sleeves.

Sblood, Pagan mentally groaned, trying to make quick work of it before she was fully awake, and yet struck by her large nipples tightening in the air. As he peeled off material, a body was emerging more curved than he thought. From her ribs to her pert buttocks, down the length of her legs, she was all woman. Pagan lost his breath letting his gaze stray to her mons before sliding her under the cover. He had heard t’was done—she had waxed most of the hair off—down there.

He meant to rise after tucking her under the linen, but her hand rose, and Pagan froze when her fingertips touched his face.

She murmured half in sleep, “They said you would lock me in the dungeons, my beast. Yet, you have been most kind. It has been many cold and lonely years, since anyone has taken care of me.”

Pagan felt his muscles tense. He reached and took her hand, lowering it from touching him. He whispered low, “Perhaps your beauty enchanted me.”

“Not a beauty. Too heathen…. God hates me.”

Pagan mentally shook his head. “God doesn’t hate you, Illara.”

“Tamed a wolf once, and a Lion, can tame a beast—I can fight. I will fight for you, my beast. I won’t let them hit you with stones.”

He smiled, and felt a strange sensation doing so—as even humor was that in his life, still it affected him that a woman who scarcely knew the details, and did not know him save the dark things, but would offer to protect him.

He had not loosed her hand yet, but he held it very lightly as he watched her brow furrow. “You sprang from brave people. I will be glad of your sword.”

An odd smile teased her lips, and she tried to open her eyes. “Don’t go back to your tower yet. Stay and watch over me. 'Tis a great castle, with many ghosts. They don’t know me as yet, and you shall have to tell them, I mean no harm.”

Pagan sat carefully on the end of the bed, wondering that she had already felt the ghosts. He and Randulf, the others, were long used to them, but his own were tangled in very real memories, and very deep guilt.

Pagan tucked her hand under the cover saying, “Sleep. I will guard you.”

She sighed again and rolled over, not away from where he sat sideways, but toward him. Her hands tucked under the pillow and having pulled the covers down, so that the tips of her breasts showed faintly.

For the longest time Pagan sat there, watching her sleep, remembering her father, John, and having met her mother Ysola at one of the bazaars. Lord John was a man who could be fearless and wise, and he oft singled out warriors he noted likewise. Pagan, like Randulf, suspected that John of Thresford knew their real identity because they hid much from most and revealed only the necessary things. John took them into his army and they learned much from him, and some of that was of his daughter and only heir, Illara.

He spoke of his wife, indulging his habit of letting her ride like the wind, be trained with weapons, and run wild, as the Lady put it. Ysola had been a beauty, several years her husband’s junior and the daughter of a physician. They had a pact that if the daughter did her lessons and learned her duties, she could have her freedoms with John. Moreover, that lord was proud, completely unashamed of his daughter. Neither Pagan nor Randulf were the only knights fascinated by her.

In England however, things were different. Such freedoms were forbidden and aside from a few brave females and those unnamed or mentioned, most were treated as chattel, or given to the church.

Pagan never intended to take a wife, nor have any woman, and he had hoped John of Thresford’s daughter would have a blessed life. He had not meant to tie any woman to him as he was.

Illara frowned again. Her hand emerged from its hiding place. When she licked her lips, Pagan could not resist. He leaned over and softly brushed his mouth against hers, tasting the hint of herbed salve and breathing in the jasmine she had rubbed in her skin.

Pagan felt too much from that supple kiss and straightened.

“Such soft lips for a beast.” Her lashes lifted, revealing a lingering mist of sleep in those moss eyes.

Pagan knew the hood shielded him, but felt oddly exposed. “It did not frighten you?”

“Nay. I’m not dreaming, am I?”

“Not dreaming,” he confirmed. “No.”

She blinked and rolled to her back, although turned her face toward him. Her hair mussed and her eyes obviously taking a long time scanning his cloaked figure.

“Lylie manages your castle very well, doesn’t she?”

“Aye. She was born here.”

“Then… what would you have me do, as your wife?”

“What is your desire, to do?”

She hesitated and Pagan could read the thoughts and second thoughts going through her head, before she blurt softly, “I should like to take up my training, and exercises, or else I shall grow rusty. And, a horse, if you can spare one. I have my saddle, and if you--”