The Barbarian (10 page)

"'Tis winter,
sire. No flowers about. In this weather 'tis a bugger to find anything
growing."

"There must
be something growing that smells good. Find what you can. And watch your
language around my Lady Amias. She's come from a large town with modern
conveniences and lordly men who don't fart in public."

"What do they
do then?" one of the younger men inquired.

"They must
hold it in," said Rolf with a smirk. "Until it bursts out of them in
a gush of hot air. Then they call it verse and slap a tune to it for
wooing."

The others
laughed. Even Stryker was tempted, but he curbed it. Rolf had given him an
idea. Wooing was a sure way to make a woman smile and keep her content until
her uncle came. Elsinora had once accused him of never bothering to woo her. He
would not make the same mistake again. He would prove to the Baron Burleigh
that his shrew niece could be tamed and that he, Stryker Bloodaxe, was the man
to do it. Now he was this close, he could smell the coin in that bride purse
and he wasn't about to lose out this time.

When the men were
dismissed, he asked Rolf to walk with him outside.
 
Since the death of Stryker's father, seven
years ago, Rolf had become the confidant he most trusted. The old man's eyes
were cloudy now, his hair thinned, back bent, legs bowed, but his knowledge
remained intact. He may not always remember what he ate for supper the night
before, but he could tell Stryker, in detail, the events of a battle in which
he participated twenty years ago. It was probably a great many years since the
man had cause to "woo", therefore Stryker had every hope his memory
would be detailed on that too.

 
But Rolf's experience, when it came to
breeding, was mainly about horses. He'd had one wife for thirty years and their
courtship, as he explained it, took place over one sunny afternoon on a
hay-cart in harvest. After careful consideration of Stryker's dilemma, the best
he could come up with was, "Compliment her on her titties."

Stryker tried to
imagine her face, should he tell her she had nice breasts. Somehow it still
scowled at him, even in his imagination. "Hmm. What else?"

"Hold her
hand," the old fellow replied sagely. "They like that—women."

****

Ami and Villette
unpacked the coffers and trunks that were rescued yesterday from the flood
waters. Some had leaked, rendering the contents damp and stained, including her
wedding gown. The material was a soft, loosely woven linen, dyed green. The
separate sleeves were embroidered with tiny sprigs of gilt thread that poked
through like primroses in spring. A pretty but frivolous, unnecessary
embellishment and too much for this place. Even with a muddy water stain
marking the skirt, it was still finer than anything else she might find in this
remote manor.

As she held the
material up to weak, wintry sunlight, Villette reminded her that this was the
fifth time she drew that gown out for a wedding day. "Good thing you won't
have to wait any longer," the maid observed cheerily, "or you might
not fit in it."

Sadly it was true.
The bridal gown was already too short and the sleeves almost too narrow, for it
was made for her when she was fifteen—the first time she was supposed to marry.
In the six years since Ami had shot up a few inches and rounded out in several
places. At least the laces could be let out at the sides, if she was too fat.

While the two
women studied the gown in the light of a window, there was a loud rap on the
door. Ami sent Villette to answer it and Stryker Bloodaxe swept into the
chamber, his fur-shouldered mantle billowing around him like wings. He is a
bird of prey, she thought—a handsome, blond gyrfalcon, intensely focused,
greedy. Always on the hunt.

He looked
well-rested, she thought. His eyes shone clear today, tranquil as deep waters
with a sparkling cover of sunbeams. Looking into his eyes, one could forget the
winter entirely.

"Come,
woman," he announced. "You can unpack later. I wish to show you the
manor."

She barely had
time to grab her own cloak, coney fur hat and riding gloves. He nodded to her
maid, gripped Ami by the sleeve and pulled her along at his side. She had to
walk fast to save from tripping. "Is there so much to see that it could
not wait?" she exclaimed.

He ignored the
question. "How is your cold, my lady?"

"I told you
it was not a cold." He had sent a kitchen maid with the apothecary’s
potion first thing that morning and her head already felt lighter, her nose
less congested. "I am never sick."

They emerged into
the brittle daylight, where two horses awaited them in the yard, one equipped
with a side-saddle. He left her to the services of a young groom, who helped
her mount with his hands cupped for her foot, and Stryker swung himself up onto
his own stallion. "Follow me," he roared, setting his horse for the
open gates.

Luckily Ami could
ride well and had no fear in the saddle. In fact, she kept up with his pace
easier on horseback than she could when he was on foot. He seemed surprised to
find her riding at his side, sitting straight, in strong command of her mount.
Good, she mused. Let him be surprised. This was only the beginning.

With a smile she
urged her horse faster and began to overtake him.

****

Stryker let her
pull ahead as they left the shallow valley and oak woodland behind. Soon they
would be on the high moor where granite tors reached for the sky, tearing into
bruised clouds. He wanted her to see and feel the dark magic of this place.
Perhaps the lady might prefer the moor in summer, he thought, but he found a
wild kind of beauty in it, especially in the depths of winter. It was nothing
he could put into words. Stryker had simply wanted to show her.
 

As she rode before
him, he admired her in the same way that he would any new filly he'd purchased
for his stock. She sat well in the saddle, had good, firm hands. The mare under
her must have sensed the rider's skill and stretched its legs accordingly,
enjoying the exercise, the brisk wind pulling on its mane as she streaked
forward across rough tussocks of gorse and heather.

He followed, close
behind, catching up. The ruffled expanse of moor now stretched before them, the
horizon dominated by those stern granite outcrops and peppered by stunted thorn
trees. Broiling clouds hung low, iron-grey, blotting out the little bit of sun
he'd woken to that morning. Rain was on its way again. Before long there would
be snow and on the high moor this marshy bog land would become a treacherous
course of deep drifts. Today the horses’ hooves rumbled over muddy ground and
flew across swollen ditches, scattering wildlife and startling snipe and
lapwings that wintered on the moor. Other parts of the countryside slumbered in
winter. But here the moor was always alive, never sleeping.

Finally alongside
her mount again, he gestured toward the distant streak of silver sea.
"Let's turn and ride that way, along the cliffs," he shouted. She
slowed her horse, as he did, and then they could speak.

Her cheeks were
pink from the chill, and she breathed hard, but her eyes shone with
exhilaration and Stryker guessed they could have raced another five miles at
least before she wanted to stop and rest. "The sea," she exclaimed,
as if she had not known it to be so close. "Is that the way to
Normandy
?"

"It is the
way to
France
,"
he replied. "and many other places." Some folk liked to travel. Not
him. This was where he belonged and when he had to go elsewhere he felt adrift.
His wife—if she stayed—would have to get accustomed to the place. They still
had a way to go yet before they reached the path that would take them closer to
the cliffs. He pointed to a grey stone ruin ahead of them. "That is the
hovel where the witch of Cynndyr once lived."

That plucked her
interest from the distant sliver of sea. "A witch?"

He nodded
solemnly. "People came from far away to have her tell their fortunes, or
cast spells on their enemies. She's gone now, of course, although some folk
still claim to see her ghost walking up here. Nothing remains but the broken
stone walls. A buzzard nests there sometimes and bats roost."

She absorbed this
for a moment. "What happened to her? Was she burned at the stake?"

"No. They say
she was betrayed by a lover. She stabbed him and threw herself off the cliffs,
into the sea."
   

Now her
imagination was well and truly caught. Somehow he'd known it would be. Her dark
eyes simmered with sinister curiosity. "Come," he said, "I'll
show you." He rode ahead down a narrow path through the heather and she
followed.

He could have told
her it was just an old shepherd's burned-out hut, but the witch of Cynndyr was
a much better story. Stryker loved his stories.
 

They dismounted and
he led her inside the crooked, mossy walls. He pointed out the buzzard's
nest—empty now—and showed her the markings in the stone, where he said the
witch had carved out spells. The building sheltered them somewhat from the
howling wind, but she did not seem to feel the cold in any case. She clambered
up the slope of broken wall to get a higher vantage point and look out over the
way they'd come, as well as down toward the frothing sea.

"Why did you
bring me up here?" she demanded suddenly. He held out his hand, wanting
her down before she slipped and fell, but she waited for his answer.

"I thought
you would like it," he muttered. It was not much compared to some of the
places she'd seen, no doubt. This woman must have been raised in grand castles,
palaces with every comfort.

Wind ruffled the
coney fur of her hat. Her brown eyes squinted. "I do."

He was relieved.
"Smile then."

Instead her brows
lowered in a scowl that was fast becoming familiar.

"Don't you
ever smile, woman?"

"What's the
point?"

He put his hands
on his hips. "There are many things in life to smile about, Lady
Amias."

"I admire
your optimism, barbarian." Ah, almost. It was a semi-smirk. Or perhaps
merely a twitch caused by the chill. She waited, staring down at him.

"I command
you to smile, wench."

That lifted her
brows, but not the corners of her mouth.

"If you do
not smile, the Beast of the Moor will get you," he added.

"The Beast of
the Moor? You mean there is another, apart from you?"

"Yes. A
great, hairy creature with bloodied fangs and flames for eyes. He roams the
moor at night, and in fog, to claim any innocent, unsmiling maidens it finds
wandering."

She shook her
head.

"You don't
believe me? Ask anyone at the manor. 'Tis a well-known fact around these parts.
On some nights, if you listen carefully, you can hear the beast howling on the
moor." He shivered. "Best keep within safe walls at night and never
wander out here alone. I daresay he'd find you a tasty morsel." He
grinned. "As I did."

She sniffed,
fidgeting with the end of one braid.

"Come down
here," he said, holding out his hand again. "I will show you some
other things to make you smile."

This time she
came, placing her gloved fingers in his. Her hand was long, elegant and
graceful. As she stepped down he moved closer and her mantle brushed against
his legs, the fur trim catching on his belt. Before she could tug herself free,
Stryker moved in for a kiss, still holding her hand. Her lips were cold,
slightly parted. Her eyes remained open and he saw himself reflected in the
great shining mirrors. It was a brief kiss. He had not planned it and did not
know why the rash thought came over him. But he needed her to smile, did he
not? He must make her content, or when her uncle came he could think the match
was not a good one. Giles Du Barry might take his niece away and her fat bride
purse too.

That was the only
reason he kissed her, surely. Stryker was not one for kissing as a rule.

Tupping didn't
require it, especially when he took a wench from behind.

But as their lips
parted he felt the urge to repeat the action. Amias tugged her mantle free from
his belt buckle and turned away before the urge became a forward motion.
"Let us go to the cliff edge," she said walking away under the stone
arch of the ruin.

Stryker followed,
catching her by the hand again. She stopped, turning to look at him. Now that
he had her attention he walked on, holding her hand. Fortunately she did not
ask him why, and when they reached the horses she let him help her up into the
saddle without a word.

****

She supposed he
did not like her walking ahead of him. Mayhap he thought she might run off, she
mused, glancing over at his stormy expression as they rode along. Why else
would he suddenly hold her hand as if she was a child in his care? No one had
held her hand for ten years at least, possibly much longer. His fingers were so
large and strong. He did not know his own power it seemed, for he'd almost
crushed her hand in his. She still felt the warmth in her palm and fingers even
now.