Once a Knight (9 page)

Ripping open his gut would have been more merciful. Since his arrival, he'd pushed his defeat to the back of his mind, ignoring the memories of his defeat. Now she spoke of it casually, as if he would unquestionably regain the title he had held so long. He knew differently. He knew his expertise had been declining even before he'd won Mary and her lands for himself, and in the years since then he'd been more of a farmer and shepherd than warrior. Only his guile and experience in battle had kept him from immediate and humiliating defeat in front of the king.

Was that the price of winning her? Did he have to become the legendary mercenary David again? Because that was impossible. He knew it was impossible.

“What?” she said, as if hearing his thoughts.

She didn't seem to realize how much her shining confidence hurt him. There wasn't a shred of guile on her face. Of course, there wasn't really a shred of emotion either.

He looked deeper. She did have faith in him. He'd better wed her as soon as possible. Before she found out the truth about him—or his damnable honor made him tell her.

“Where is your hauberk?” she asked.

His chain-mail shirt, his pride and joy, had gone to her armorer the night before to be oiled and repaired, but she didn't know that. She just wanted to avoid touching him. “I think I need the surcoat today. No reasonable man would brave this storm to shoot at me.”

She lifted her head and heard what he heard. The gray morning light had dissolved into a firm, steady rain. He credited her sense of duty rather than her vindictiveness when she said, “That's true. You'll have to move quickly on your rounds today.”

Standing, he pulled on his hose and tied the garters of his left leg. Then he noticed she was watching instead of helping, and he realized his foolishness. While he tied the front strap of his right leg, he said, “Here. The old wound on my hip restricts my movement, and I can't twist around to tie it.” He didn't have a wound on his hip, but she didn't know that. Not unless she'd gotten a better look last night than he thought.

Apparently she hadn't. She sank to her knees beside him and groped for the other strap. By the time she found it, tucked inside the back of his braies, and tied it, he had to close his eyes and grit his teeth to keep the groan of lust within him. He'd asked her to help him as a kind of jest, to see if she would perform the duties of a wife without quibble, and now he paid for his presumption with an agonized pleasure.

“There you are, Sir David,” she said. “Will there be anything else?”

The tone of her voice made his eyes snap open, and
he looked down at her. It wasn't that she sounded insolent, or openly laughed at him, but he'd been observing her for days now, and he recognized her amusement.

As she knelt before him, the temptation to show her what else he would have her do was great, but it was too soon for that. Instead, he let her stand, and she had already turned away when he said, “There is one other thing.”

His hands spanned her waist. Her firm flesh warmed his hands immediately, and he pulled her close. Women, for him, were normally bits of pleasure, but the top of Alisoun's head reached almost to his nose and she spanned almost his whole length. He wanted to revel in her obvious surprise at his maneuver, but his training warned him he had best follow up his advantage at once.

Wrapping one arm around her back, he tipped her off balance. “Alisoun?”

Totally unprepared, she looked up, and he kissed her.

Her cool, dry lips impressed him with their curiosity. Whether or not she admitted it, Alisoun wanted experience, but she positively hadn't had it yet.

He broke off the kiss. “Hasn't anyone
ever
kissed you?”

“Not memorably.”

He digested that, then said, “A challenge.” He bent over her again. “The legendary mercenary David always accepts a challenge.”

Apparently she had second thoughts about her cooperation, for she turned her head away. He didn't care. Her cheek attracted him, as did her forehead and her lashes. Dark lashes, he noticed, and again he wondered if her hair was truly red. Everything about her tasted good, a little like heather. She still withheld her lips, but she
wasn't clawing at his face or kneeing him in the groin, so he knew he didn't personally repulse her, and he could bank on that interest to give him a chance. He touched her lips with his tongue, then withdrew it. Her body tensed against his, and he felt her quick intake of breath.

“Don't be such a coward,” he whispered.

Speechless, she glared at him.

“But you're not a coward. You just want to know. I don't tell. I won't tell. Use me.” He smiled at her. “I won't charge for
this
service.”

Somehow, reminding her that she was in charge freed her from that lingering stiffness. She didn't smile back—she hadn't lost that much propriety—but her lids fluttered, then closed, and she relaxed against him.

Her show of trust almost sent him groping for the bed, but she probably thought he was like this with every woman. Probably she underestimated her own potency, and the power of his knowing she would be his wife. Probably she hadn't even accepted his candidacy, but this cinched her fate. Aye, he wanted her lands, but he wanted
her
.

“Sir David?”

He caught her with her mouth open. His lips molded hers, his tongue thrust inside before she could change her mind. He tasted her shock, and realized she couldn't have changed her mind. She hadn't known what to expect. He wanted to breathe with her lungs, wanted to moan with her voice, but more than that, he wanted to connect with that kiss. That kiss sent her body arcing against his, brought him protectively over her. It was the best kiss of his life. It was…she fought him in a spasm, and he let her up for air.

Then he edged his knee between her legs and pressed her against it with his hand on her bottom. “Now
you
kiss
me
.”

“What?” Her eyes opened, and she looked at him sleepily.

Immediately he imagined how she would appear after a night in his bed, and he rubbed his knee up and down, up and down. “Kiss
me
.”

She understood without further elocution, and wet her lips with distracting resolve.

He was going to die of pleasure, and she hadn't even touched him yet.

Her breath reached him first. He inhaled the scent of mint, felt the first tingle of fever. Then her lips, then her teeth, then…oh, blessed day, her tongue met his. For one lucid moment, he remembered the tale his great-grandmother used to tell him. Then the hard slam of desire swept everything before it. He was lost in it, drowning in it, clutching at it, at her.

Probably only one sound could have brought him to the surface.

A giggle. A girl's high-pitched giggle.

He lifted his head, took a breath, opened his eyes, and found himself staring into Alisoun's bewildered gaze. The giggle from the great hall had been abruptly cut off. None of the serving folk or men-at-arms who broke their fasts peered into his chamber, but the damage had been done. Or was it a rescue? Had they been moving toward a cataclysm with no guidance and no forethought? Before he could gather his thoughts, Alisoun's calm facade fell into place. “My thanks, Sir David. It's good to know I have hired a man experienced in every field.”

Irritated, he could only stare as she freed herself from his grip. How did she do that? How could she be trembling in his arms one moment, and indifferent the next? He wanted to grab her and shake her until the mask she wore fell away. Instead he watched as she
glided away from him with her usual poise. He almost turned away from the sight of her. He almost missed it, but as she walked past the door, she staggered and caught at the frame.

She glanced back at him in embarrassment.

He pretended he hadn't seen it. But he now knew his plan. From now on, he would woo her and win her with kindness and patience. He would oil his tongue and court her, and before she knew it, she would be in the thrall of that fashionable romantic rot.

Perhaps he would have to shave, after all.

“
What's wrong with Sir Walter?
” The spindle slowly spun and dropped as the weight on the end pulled the wool thin and Edlyn's fingers fought to twist thread from the fluffy ball of raw wool.

“Don't get it too thin,” Alisoun warned while she wondered how to answer. Everyone within the keep seemed to have a theory about Sir Walter's sudden tantrum this morning. With a calm she didn't feel, Alisoun said, “Sir Walter apparently saw the enthusiasm with which I welcomed Sir David's embrace this morning, and responded poorly. I see now I should not have left the door open.”

Edlyn's eyes shone with excitement. “Philippa says if you had shut the door you'd still be in there.”

Alisoun's hand jerked. The thread broke and the spindle hit the floor, and everyone in the great hall turned to look. “Did she?” She hid the color that inched up her cheeks by leaning over to pick up the spindle. “And what was the reaction to that?”

Hands freed of labor, Edlyn clasped them to her bosom. “They say it would be so romantic if the fair maiden of George's Cross were wooed and won by the greatest mercenary in England.”

Unexpectedly, Alisoun almost laughed. “I thought you weren't aware of Sir David's reputation.”

“They told me.”

They
. Everyone in the castle had been gossiping about David. Alisoun corrected herself.
Sir
David. She'd already learned the danger of thinking of him in a too-familiar way. He responded in a too-familiar way.

Now she'd given them more to gossip about, and from what she'd learned of David, he would nurse that gossip until he'd achieved his objective or she'd thrown him out. And she couldn't throw him out.

Sliding the almost finished skein off the stick, she said, “I'm a widow, and I let a man kiss me. That is surely not so unusual an event.”

Edlyn giggled. “Not for anyone but you, my lady.”

Poking the unformed ball of wool, Alisoun found a strand and started another thread. The labor of making thread was every woman's constant companion, be she lady or serf. It took twelve spinners to keep up with one weaver, and Edlyn had never developed the dexterity for creating an even thread. So every rainy day, Alisoun took Edlyn into a corner of the great hall and taught her about thread, trying to prepare her for the role of lady of the castle. When she thought today of what she had to tell Edlyn, a sick feeling clogged her throat. Poor child.

Quickly she corrected herself. Lucky woman. Edlyn was a lucky woman, and it was Alisoun's glad duty to tell her so. She would do it…soon. Lanolin from the wool made Alisoun's fingers soft, experience made her fingers supple, and again she showed Edlyn how to
hook the thread to the spindle. “Twist it evenly,” she urged, then sat back to watch and think.

It had been stupid to go to Sir David's room alone, but she'd wanted to prove something to herself. She'd wanted to prove she could be with him, see him, and not become the incompetent of the night before.

Last night, she hadn't shown it, of course. She would never show such weakness. But his display of masculinity had shocked her in a titillating sort of way. She had wanted to stay and stare, and maybe wash him and see if it were possible that such a previously unimpressive appendage could grow yet bigger. That had been what had chased her from the room. Not fear or awe, but temptation.

“Damned curiosity,” she whispered.

Edlyn kept her eyes on the thread, but she grinned.

The child was growing up. She was smart enough not to comment on Alisoun's chagrin, but still imprudent enough to think she could ask any question without chastisement. Alisoun had informed Edlyn's parents of her liveliness, accompanied by a suggestion that they chose her husband with an eye to his kindness and not just his wealth. Their reply had been waiting when she returned from Lancaster, and the tone had been ominous. No one wanted advice from the oldest virgin widow in England.

Edlyn reverted to her original subject with the tenacity of a puppy jerking on a meaty sinew. “Sir Walter hasn't been as respectful as he used to be, ever since Philippa…”

Alisoun looked up.

The warning in her gaze stopped Edlyn, and she reconsidered. Then she said defiantly, “Well, he hasn't treated you well for a long time now.”

Alisoun had hoped nobody had noticed. She
believed that for her people to feel secure, their leaders should be united in purpose. She knew, without doubt, that she, as the lady, should be the highest authority.

In retrospect, she realized she had placed her confidence in the wrong man. She had chosen Sir Walter, raised him from his place as a lowly knight. Then he had not only taken it on himself to reprove her, but he had failed to do the one thing she thought him able to do. When the assaults had begun and she demanded a solution, Sir Walter had suggested that Alisoun remain within the castle walls. For a woman whose responsibilities required that she ride to the village, to the fields, to her other estates, such a remedy proved one thing only—Sir Walter was incompetent. He would have to step aside, at least until the issue had been resolved.

Yet Alisoun didn't know if anything could ever be resolved. Even if Sir David successfully kept her tormentor at bay, she feared—she knew—she would never be sure of her peace. But she'd done what she'd done. Dear God, what choice had she had?

“Edlyn, I've had a letter from your parents.” She didn't try to infuse enthusiasm into her voice. She knew that would only frighten the girl more. “They have chosen your husband.”

Edlyn's hands faltered. She almost dropped the spindle, and Alisoun heard the audible breath she drew. But she regained her composure with a speed that made Alisoun proud. “Did they tell you his name?”

She'd been practicing, Alisoun thought. She'd been expecting to hear, and practicing her reaction to the news. “It is Lawton, duke of Cleere. It is a very good match for you.”

“Cleere?” The spindle began to spin too rapidly. “Where is Cleere?”

“In the south of England.”

“How far south?”

“In Wessex.”

Edlyn's skin paled to the color of ivory, her lips turned almost blue, but she said nothing.

Heart aching, Alisoun said, “I've met him. He's a good man.”

“Does he have land closer to—” Edlyn swallowed, “—here?”

“Not that I know of, but perhaps your family gave him a parcel of land as dowry.”

Edlyn stared at Alisoun until Alisoun looked away. “My family has six girls. They cannot afford to give parcels of land away with every marriage. So…he's a duke. I'm marrying a duke, and my family has nothing to give with me. Lady Alisoun?”

“Aye?” Alisoun responded as she should, with no emotion whatever. Almost no emotion.

“What's wrong with the duke of Cleere?” Edlyn asked.

“There's nothing
wrong
with him.” Alisoun realized she dithered while Edlyn waited in agony. “He's a little older than I would have chosen.”

Edlyn's voice rose an octave. “Older than David?”

God shield the child. She thought David old. “Older than two Davids.”

“I'm going to go away to a far place, and probably never see you or my family again, to be the wife of a man who…does he have any teeth?” Edlyn read the answer in Alisoun's expression. “Or hair?”

“He's got hair,” Alisoun said quickly.

Edlyn stared at Alisoun with unnatural calm. “I've been praying every morning at mass for a man who…not for a handsome man, or a clever man, or a rich man, but one who…” She shuddered. “He'll want to
kiss me, like Sir David did with you, and he won't have any teeth. He'll touch me all over, and his hands will be all dry-feeling like a serpent's, and he'll want me to touch him. All saggy and…”

Alisoun couldn't stand it anymore. “Edlyn.” She laid her hand on the girl's head. “I know Lord Lawton, and I give you my word, he is as kind and generous a man as any woman could want. Nothing can turn the clock back and make him young again. Nothing can move his home closer to mine. But you, of all people, know how important it is to have a husband who will treat you gently. I swear to you, he will do so.” Edlyn's head drooped, and Alisoun slid to her knees and looked up into her face. “I've been praying, too, and I'm not dissatisfied with the results.”

“He'll die, won't he?”

She should reprimand the girl for ill-wishing such a good man, but such self-righteous nonsense was beyond her now. “Sooner or later.”

“I hope he doesn't get me with child.” Edlyn seemed to be unaware that she was speaking her thoughts aloud. “I don't want to die before him in childbed.”

No cruelty discolored her words, only a plaintive wish for life, and Alisoun found herself without the proper thing to say.

“Lady Alisoun, I think I'll go to the chapel. I need to develop the proper resignation.” Edlyn smiled, a poor, pitiful thing, a smile not unlike the one Alisoun saw on so many wives' faces. “Perhaps I can find it there.”

Watching Edlyn wander toward the stairwell, Alisoun wondered what had happened to the well-arranged life she'd lived for so long. In her conceit, she thought that if one planned properly, observed clearly, and always shouldered one's responsibilities without reservation, one would escape the clutter and disorganization which
ruled the lives of others. It had worked for years. For years, she had been undisputed lady of all she surveyed, unbothered by heartache, sedition, danger, or confusion. It had seemed to her that she had discovered the magic formula others sought, and the ease with which she worked it gave her a faint sensation of superiority.

Although her organization remained firmly in place, the heartache and sedition had found her. Heartache for Edlyn, suddenly an adult, but with a child's vulnerability. Sedition from Sir Walter. Danger from Osbern. And confusion…Slowly, she leaned down and picked up the spindle Edlyn had dropped. Confusion. God's shield, David of Radcliffe seemed to sow confusion all around him.

 

“Lady Alisoun is imagining things.” Sir Walter paced along the high walk atop the castle wall.

From here, they could see all the way down the hill to the village and well beyond, and David listened to Sir Walter while observing with a warrior's eyes. “There wasn't an arrow shot at her?”

“An arrow shot, aye. At her?” Sir Walter chuckled and threw his arm around David's shoulders in a man-to-man gesture. “Nay.”

David stopped beside a crenellation and leaned out to look across Alisoun's land, soft and green in the falling rain. The movement scraped Sir Walter's arm off on the stone, and he wished he could scrape Sir Walter off as easily. The man had been dogging his footsteps and answering questions in such a munificent spirit he had convinced David of his culpability. Did he think David stupid? Or was he hoping to correct the mistake he'd made—to retain his position, or to diffuse suspicion? “Did you find the archer, then?”

“Nay, but poachers are notorious for being swift in escape, and none of them are likely to admit to shooting an arrow that had hit their lady.”

The forest had been cut back on all sides of the castle, leaving no easy cover for attackers, but nothing could remove the giant rocks which thrust themselves up through the flesh of the earth like bones from a compound fracture. “Why would anyone want to shoot at their lady?”

“Lady Alisoun won't listen to…” David twisted around and leaned his shoulder against the mossy stone, and Sir Walter pulled a rueful face. “Well, you may have noticed, she has a mind of her own. She's made unpopular decisions at times, but I doubt that anyone shot at her on purpose. I think it was a wild shot.”

“Hm.” David walked toward the tower nearest the keep. It overlooked the sea, and the scenery beyond changed from soft pastels to vivid stains of color. The purple sea reflected the clouds. Sea creatures rode through the snowy foam on the waves, flipping their browns and grays over and over with no caution for the wet, black rocks. Such a contrast, David mused. The domesticated calm of the village and fields and the ferocity of the water. Lady Alisoun belonged to the domestic side of this castle, just as the domestic side belonged to her.

Yet she'd grown up in the keep, and the keep hugged the ocean, using its rugged backdrop as a natural defense. She'd heard the waves breaking with every storm, smelled the salt and shivered in the untamed wind. Had Alisoun, strong as she was, resisted the might of the sea? Or had the sea formed that part of her that roiled in hidden ecstasy?

“Would you perhaps like to visit the stables?” Sir Walter clapped his hands and rubbed the palms
together. “You can see the arrangements we made for King Louis. He's a very famous horse, and we're honored to have him in our care.”

“Aye? Has he spit on you yet?” The corner tower rose before them, and David opened the tiny door. Ivo huddled close to the basket of coals that heated the guardroom.

Sir Walter leaped through the door as if one of the coals had fallen in his braies. “Get out to your duty.”

Ivo just turned his head and stared. David didn't know whom the big man-at-arms despised more—him or Sir Walter. But if the man despised Sir Walter, that was all to the good. That attitude could be used for David's own purposes, especially since Ivo had shown his unwavering loyalty to Alisoun. Strolling to the basket, he stretched out his hands. “I don't know, Sir Walter. Perhaps we should ask Ivo who fired the shot.”

“He doesn't know anything.” Sir Walter spoke too quickly. “He's just an ignorant man-at-arms.”

David answered. “I've found that if I'm searching for the answer to a puzzle such as the one facing us here, those men who are silent often know the most.”

Ivo snorted.

“If he knew anything, he would have told me what he knew,” Sir Walter insisted. “Isn't that right, Ivo?”