Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
The Last Knight (8 page)
All he did was grunt. Finally, she could bear his fierce, steady gaze no longer. And what about you, Monsieur? To whom are you loyal?
He smiled then, a brief, fierce smile that showed his teeth and never touched his eyes. To myself, he said, and lowered the sword.
Attica's relief was so total, the release of tension so sudden and complete, that she would have fallen if de Jarnac had not thrust home his sword and caught her by her shoulders as she sagged.
Steady now, lad, he said, the warmth of his breath brushing her cheek. I don't know whether you speak the truth or not, but I'm not about to ignore information such as this. I'll see your warning reaches La Ferté-Bernard.
The firm pressure of his hands on her upper arms felt oddly comforting. She knew a strange impulse to lean into the protective warmth and strength of his big, masculine bodyan absolutely absurd impulse, she thought with a wave of self-disgust, considering that he was the one who had just threatened to kill her and scared her out of her wits in the process.
She jerked out of his grasp, fury and righteous indignation rushing in to take the place of stark terror. I thought you were going to kill me, she screamed at him, her hands gripped into tight fists, her entire body quivering. You scared me half to death.
His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring wide as he leaned into her. Did I? Well, good. Because you lied to me, my young friend, and your lies could easily have gotten me killed. He thumped her shoulder with one crooked finger, hard. If I decide to risk my life, that's one thing. But I don't like other people doing it for me without my knowledge or consent. Is that understood?
She glared up at him, a flush heating her cheeks as she realized he was right. By asking him to accompany her without telling him she might face pursuit more serious than that offered by a band of ragged routiers, she had placed him in far greater potential danger than he had bargained for. She opened her mouth to apologize to him, then thought about those hideous, heart-stopping moments she had spent staring down the length of his naked sword and changed her mind.
So, she said, her voice brusque. Now you know. She peered up at him. Will you still accompany me to Laval?
He swung away from her, growling a string of oaths that made her eyes widen and her jaw drop. She watched anxiously as he reached out to snatch up the Arab's reins. He stood for a moment, staring down at the leather in his hands. Then his head jerked up and he dropped the reins to spin around again so unexpectedly that she took a hasty step backward. She would have retreated farther, only his fierce gaze fastened on her, trapping her like a deer caught in the glare of a lantern.
What else are you not telling me? he demanded.
She stared up into his hard, accusing face and felt her breath and her wits both desert her. N-nothing.
When she said it, she honestly believed it to be truein the sense he meant, at least. Surely neither the truth about
her sex nor her true identity could place him in any more danger than the knowledge she had already given him.
She saw his lips twist into a half sneer that flicked her on the raw. She straightened her back and lifted her chin. I know you might find my words difficult to believe, sir knight, but I am normally a very truthful person. I pride myself on my honesty and honor.
Do you indeed? He took a step that brought him right up to her. Well, then, let us hope for your sake that neither your honesty nor your honor are found lacking. For if that should prove to be the case, then make no mistake about this, lordling: You shall heartily rue the day our paths crossed.
She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, her head falling back as she stared up into his shadowed eyes. She heard in the distance the clip-clop of hooves and the gentle purring coo Sergei used to talk to the horses. But she could not tear her stricken gaze away from de Jarnac's cold, cruel face. Every muscle in her body seemed stretched taut, as tense as the air that shimmered between them.
He held her gaze for another endless moment. Then she saw his lips twist into a chilling smile as he said, And you have my word on
that
.
Once more in the saddle, Attica hunched her shoulders and tried not to shiver, for the heat of the day had disappeared with the sun and a bitter wind kicked up. In her exhaustion, the cold seemed even greater than she knew it really was, became one more enemy to be borne, like the scream in her back and the ache in her legs. She clutched with numb fingers at the wooden pommel before her, afraid that she might slip unknowingly into sleep and tumble from the saddle, but even more afraid that her endurance would crack and she would open her mouth and beg de Jarnac to stop for the night.
She pressed her lips together and rode on.
You're very quiet, he said, his voice coming to her out of the wind-tossed darkness, and she realized he must have reined in to allow her to catch up with him.
She felt her body tense with strain and anger and something else she couldn't even begin to identify. What do you expect? she snapped, weariness and simmering fury
both sharpening her voice. The roan would have paused, but she kneed it determinedly forward without even glancing at the man beside her.
The soft huff of his laugh curled toward her through the night. You're still angry with me, he said, and brought his horse in beside hers.
Did you think I would not be? She turned to look at him. To her eyes, he was little more than a shadow in the moonlight, a dark silhouette of broad shoulders and lean, athletic grace. Yet she was intensely aware of him beside her, of the sheer energy of his being and the dangerous power of his masculinity. Riding through the cool, starlit night, with the wind blowing her hair about her face and this man by her side and only the faint following patter of Sergei leading the spare horses, she felt again that sensation of dislocation, as if she were someone else, not herself at all.
She looked away from him to the distant, gently rounded hills glowing dimly in the moonlight. My mother tells me I have an unforgiving nature, she said. But I doubt even she would expect me to forgive too quickly someone who held a naked sword to my chest. She only just managed to catch herself before she said breast.
Huh. If you're going to move through the world of men, lordling, you must expect to be treated accordingly. The clatter of their horses hooves filled a slight pause before he added, Or would you rather I had taken my belt to your noble backside?
His words sent such a wave of heat blazing through her that she was thankful for the darkness hiding her face from his gaze. The world of men? she said, imbuing her voice with all the scorn she could muster. Is it a manly thing, then, to draw steel upon an unarmed boy?
He let out a sharp laugh. You think it feminine, do you?
She slewed around in the saddle to face him. What I think it, is unchivalrous. I would expect you, as a knight, not to take unfair advantage of one in no position to defend himself.
She couldn't see his features, but she could hear the hardness beneath the heavy mockery in his voice as he said, Now, whatever made you expect such a foolish thing as that?
There are codes
I don't follow them. The Arab snorted and tossed its dark head with a jangle of its bridle as he abruptly drew rein and turned to her. What do you think? That because I am a knight, I live my life by some idealistic code of chivalry articulated by fat old priests, who tell me that I must be not only brave, strong, and true but also generous to the weak and an unthinking, unquestioning servant to the Holy Church?
She stared at him. You would question the teachings of the Holy Church?
When I've seen countless thousands of Saracen women, children, and old men put to the sword by the unthinking and unquestioning servants of that Holy Churchthe same Holy Church, mind you, that teaches its adherents that
Thou shalt not kill
then, yes, I question it.
But a knight's honor
Honor? He let out a harsh laugh. Believe me, the thought of young men dying needlessly because of their allegiance to some abstract concept of honor and loyalty might be noble. But I decided a long time ago that when it comes down to a choice between me fighting fairly and
dying or me gaining an unfair advantage over my opponent by stabbing him in the back first, the dagger in the back wins every time.
You're just saying that, she whispered.
He leaned closer, close enough for the faint moonlight to show her the stark planes of his sun-darkened face, close enough that she could see the faint flutter of his black hair as it moved against his strong throat in the night wind. Don't you believe it. You'd best get this straight right now, lordling: I am loyal to no one but myself, and the only code I follow is my own. He urged his horse forward and left her there to follow or not, as she pleased.
She sat staring after him, the reins slack in her hands, a strange, lonely ache burning fiercely in her chestan ache that was part sorrow, part yearning for some nameless thing she could not grasp. She didn't know how long she would have sat there, lost to exhaustion and her own private, suffocating wants and confusion, if Sergei hadn't come up beside her. The roan began to move of its own accord, following the other horses down the pale ribbon of road.
Why are we stopping? Attica asked, lifting her head to glance about in sudden confusion.
She realized she must have dozed, because to her surprise she found herself staring at the timber and wattle and daub facade of an inn that stood at a crossroads just outside the dark wooden palisade of some town. The gates of the town itself had long since been shut and barred against the night. But welcoming light and the enticing scent of roasting meat and good soup spilled from the inn's open
door. Attica's stomach rumbled loudly, reminding her just how long it had been since she'd last eaten.
Smells good, doesn't it? Sergei said, from so close beside her that she realized he must have been pacing her, watching carefully, ready to catch her if she started to slip from the saddle.
She turned her head to smile at him. Yes, except Her gaze traveled beyond the squire to de Jarnac, who slid out of his saddle with an enviable ease that told her he could have ridden through the night without pause. Why have we stopped here? she asked as the knight came at her out of the darkness.
Because you look as if you're about ready to topple off that horse, he said dryly. Let me give you a hand down.
He started to reach for her, but she touched her heel to the roan's side to send it dancing away. I can keep going, she insisted.
She heard his grunt of disbelief. I doubt it, he said, stepping back to plant his hands on his hips in that way he had that caught strangely at her breath. Besides, I lied. We're here because the horses need a rest and I'm hungry. Now get down.
He would have turned away then, but she stopped him by saying hotly, We can't stop; you know that. I must reach Laval in time to send a warning on to my brother.
De Jarnac swung to face her again, his head tipping back as he grinned up at her. Sweet Jesus. You're as worrisome as a woman. I've more than enough time to reach La Ferté-Bernard before anything happens. And I'll be of far more use to Henry when I get there if I haven't half killed myself on the road.
She stared at him. You? You are going to La Ferté-Bernard?
I told you I'd see your warning delivered. But right now I'm going to have myself a good supper and drink a horn of wine in a gesture of thanks to poor old Sir Odo, who is probably camped at this very moment in some damp meadow full of quarrelsome Spanish merchants and dreaming wistfully of milk-fed lamb and big-titted whores.
Attica had never heard of Sir Odo, but the casual reference to whores conjured up alarmingly lurid images that caused her to sit bolt upright in the saddle. Whores? she said with a gasp.
Whores?
I I do not think I wish to stay at this inn.
De Jarnac was already turning away from her, his gaze scanning the upstairs windows as he said, Stop fretting, lordling. The inn might be full, but I ought to be able to get a private chamber for us. I won't make you sleep in the attics with the riffraff.
At the words
private chamber
, Attica's stomach did a curious flip-flop. She threw herself off the roan so fast, her wobbly legs almost collapsed beneath her. No, wait, she cried.
But he had already disappeared through the door of the inn.
Some quarter of an hour later, Attica stood rooted to the doorway of the private chamber, the dead courtier's saddlebags clutched to her bound breasts like a shield as she let her gaze drift around the low-ceilinged room with its freshly whitewashed walls, its close-shuttered window, its glowing charcoal brazier adding a warm red hue to the golden flickering light of the cressets.
Not a palace, I admit, said de Jarnac, kicking off his boots. But at least it's surprisingly clean. He unbuckled his sword and tossed it onto the bed while Attica made an incoherent gurgling sound in her throat.
Oak framed and hung with crimson-dyed linen, the bed was widewide enough to sleep five, which it doubtlessly often did. She knew she should consider herself lucky to be given even this limited amount of privacy. After all, she could have found herself sleeping on a pallet in the loft along with the assorted book peddlers, cock masters, tinsmiths, jongleurs, and pilgrims who seemed to make up the majority of their fellow guests for the evening. Or she could have been expected to bed down in the hay of the stables with Sergei and the other guests grooms and squires. But those alternatives, which had once loomed frighteningly, now seemed oddly preferable to this this intimacy with this man.
Stop dawdling and close the door, said de Jarnac, pulling his tunic off over his head. The landlord's boy should be here soon with my water, and you're letting in the cold.
His hands dropped to the laces of his braies. Attica turned in a barely disguised panic and fled.
She washed as best she could at the well in the yard. The water was shudderingly cold and the night air chilled by the gusting breeze, and she had to be careful not to wet her hair, in case the dye she'd rubbed into it after leaving Châteauhaut should come off. Quickly drying her face and hands on a length of linen from the courtier's bags, all she could think about was how she longed to strip off her dusty clothes, as de Jarnac had doubtlessly done, and wash the dirt and sweat from her body with a basin of warm water. Or better yet, sink into a deep, sweetly scented, steaming bath.
Sighing, she bent to tuck the towel back into the satchel. The light from the torch near the stable flared, catching on
the edge of what looked like a book. Curious, she pulled it out, oddly affected to find herself staring at a small, plain breviary.
So this is what Olivier de Harcourt was asking for
, she thought sadly. With an unexpected twinge of sadness, she thrust the book back into the satchel and buckled it closed.
Tossing the bags over her shoulder, she crossed the manure-strewn yard toward the noise of the common room. At the bottom of the inn steps she paused, one hand on the railing, to stare uncertainly at the muted golden light that glowed through the cracks around the shuttered windows.
When the comtesse d'Alérion traveled, she stopped the night at abbeys or in the manor houses and castles of her class, where beds were always made available to noble travelers. Never in her life had Attica sat down to eat in the common room of an inn. On those rare occasions when Blanche did have need to pause at such a place, the comtesse would remain in her litter, resting in the shade of a tree, while servants were sent running to bring any required refreshment out to the yard.
Attica herself was too much the daughter of Robert d'Alériona rough, hard-drinking, loud-mouthed Norman knightto have grown up to share her mother's haughty arrogance. Yet there was no denying that the room before her was an alien world, and the thought of having to keep up this wearing pretense of maleness in front of so many peopleso many
men
made her heart sink.
Before she could give way to the cowardly impulse to retreat without supper to her bed, Attica ran up the three shallow steps to the door and pushed it open. A blast of warm, noisy air slammed into her with an impact that was almost physical. She found herself confronting a strange, dimly lit masculine world, murky with smoke from the
torches and thick with the smells of damp wool and male sweat and the fumes of spilt wine and ale. A confusing medley of rough voices and ribald laughter and one uninhibited, high-pitched feminine squeal swirled around her. She pushed herself forward, searching the room for a familiar pair of broad shoulders and a darkly handsome face amongst the unkempt heads and huddled forms of the strangers who jostled one another on the rough benches.
She saw an aging knight, his tunic tattered and shiny, his dark beard threaded with gray, and a ruined monk, his black hair bristly and stiff over the relic of his tonsure. Then a man's laugh rang out, deep and clear and blessedly familiar. She felt a flood of warm relief and turned.
De Jarnac sat at the table in the far corner, his back to the wall, the flare of a nearby rushlight glazing his high forehead and the sharp lines of his cheekbones. In place of his leather
broigne
, he wore a dark wool tunic that molded itself to his broad chest. As she watched, he lifted his cup and tilted back his head to drink. She saw his jaw bulge and the muscles of his tanned throat move as he swallowed. Then he lowered his head and his gaze met hers across the length of the room.
She watched his face break into a lazy, welcoming smile that was a wonder to her. Looking at him now, she thought, no one would ever suspect that only an hour or so ago he had held his naked sword pointed at her breast and threatened to kill her. She had always known men for strange, incomprehensible creatures. But as she wove her way toward him through the crowded trestle tables, Attica decided that a woman needed to dress as a man and go among them as one of their own for at least a day in order to truly understand just how illogical and absurd men really were.
There you are, lordling, he said, his gaze flicking over
the dark water stains on her velvet surcoat, his senses doubtlessly noting the cold night air that clung about her still. I was beginning to wonder if I should ask the innkeeper to drag his well. Best take a seat before they run out of food. There's a full house tonight.
He smiled then, a brief, fierce smile that showed his teeth and never touched his eyes. To myself, he said, and lowered the sword.
Attica's relief was so total, the release of tension so sudden and complete, that she would have fallen if de Jarnac had not thrust home his sword and caught her by her shoulders as she sagged.
Steady now, lad, he said, the warmth of his breath brushing her cheek. I don't know whether you speak the truth or not, but I'm not about to ignore information such as this. I'll see your warning reaches La Ferté-Bernard.
The firm pressure of his hands on her upper arms felt oddly comforting. She knew a strange impulse to lean into the protective warmth and strength of his big, masculine bodyan absolutely absurd impulse, she thought with a wave of self-disgust, considering that he was the one who had just threatened to kill her and scared her out of her wits in the process.
She jerked out of his grasp, fury and righteous indignation rushing in to take the place of stark terror. I thought you were going to kill me, she screamed at him, her hands gripped into tight fists, her entire body quivering. You scared me half to death.
His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring wide as he leaned into her. Did I? Well, good. Because you lied to me, my young friend, and your lies could easily have gotten me killed. He thumped her shoulder with one crooked finger, hard. If I decide to risk my life, that's one thing. But I don't like other people doing it for me without my knowledge or consent. Is that understood?
She glared up at him, a flush heating her cheeks as she realized he was right. By asking him to accompany her without telling him she might face pursuit more serious than that offered by a band of ragged routiers, she had placed him in far greater potential danger than he had bargained for. She opened her mouth to apologize to him, then thought about those hideous, heart-stopping moments she had spent staring down the length of his naked sword and changed her mind.
So, she said, her voice brusque. Now you know. She peered up at him. Will you still accompany me to Laval?
He swung away from her, growling a string of oaths that made her eyes widen and her jaw drop. She watched anxiously as he reached out to snatch up the Arab's reins. He stood for a moment, staring down at the leather in his hands. Then his head jerked up and he dropped the reins to spin around again so unexpectedly that she took a hasty step backward. She would have retreated farther, only his fierce gaze fastened on her, trapping her like a deer caught in the glare of a lantern.
What else are you not telling me? he demanded.
She stared up into his hard, accusing face and felt her breath and her wits both desert her. N-nothing.
When she said it, she honestly believed it to be truein the sense he meant, at least. Surely neither the truth about
her sex nor her true identity could place him in any more danger than the knowledge she had already given him.
She saw his lips twist into a half sneer that flicked her on the raw. She straightened her back and lifted her chin. I know you might find my words difficult to believe, sir knight, but I am normally a very truthful person. I pride myself on my honesty and honor.
Do you indeed? He took a step that brought him right up to her. Well, then, let us hope for your sake that neither your honesty nor your honor are found lacking. For if that should prove to be the case, then make no mistake about this, lordling: You shall heartily rue the day our paths crossed.
She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, her head falling back as she stared up into his shadowed eyes. She heard in the distance the clip-clop of hooves and the gentle purring coo Sergei used to talk to the horses. But she could not tear her stricken gaze away from de Jarnac's cold, cruel face. Every muscle in her body seemed stretched taut, as tense as the air that shimmered between them.
He held her gaze for another endless moment. Then she saw his lips twist into a chilling smile as he said, And you have my word on
that
.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Once more in the saddle, Attica hunched her shoulders and tried not to shiver, for the heat of the day had disappeared with the sun and a bitter wind kicked up. In her exhaustion, the cold seemed even greater than she knew it really was, became one more enemy to be borne, like the scream in her back and the ache in her legs. She clutched with numb fingers at the wooden pommel before her, afraid that she might slip unknowingly into sleep and tumble from the saddle, but even more afraid that her endurance would crack and she would open her mouth and beg de Jarnac to stop for the night.
She pressed her lips together and rode on.
You're very quiet, he said, his voice coming to her out of the wind-tossed darkness, and she realized he must have reined in to allow her to catch up with him.
She felt her body tense with strain and anger and something else she couldn't even begin to identify. What do you expect? she snapped, weariness and simmering fury
both sharpening her voice. The roan would have paused, but she kneed it determinedly forward without even glancing at the man beside her.
The soft huff of his laugh curled toward her through the night. You're still angry with me, he said, and brought his horse in beside hers.
Did you think I would not be? She turned to look at him. To her eyes, he was little more than a shadow in the moonlight, a dark silhouette of broad shoulders and lean, athletic grace. Yet she was intensely aware of him beside her, of the sheer energy of his being and the dangerous power of his masculinity. Riding through the cool, starlit night, with the wind blowing her hair about her face and this man by her side and only the faint following patter of Sergei leading the spare horses, she felt again that sensation of dislocation, as if she were someone else, not herself at all.
She looked away from him to the distant, gently rounded hills glowing dimly in the moonlight. My mother tells me I have an unforgiving nature, she said. But I doubt even she would expect me to forgive too quickly someone who held a naked sword to my chest. She only just managed to catch herself before she said breast.
Huh. If you're going to move through the world of men, lordling, you must expect to be treated accordingly. The clatter of their horses hooves filled a slight pause before he added, Or would you rather I had taken my belt to your noble backside?
His words sent such a wave of heat blazing through her that she was thankful for the darkness hiding her face from his gaze. The world of men? she said, imbuing her voice with all the scorn she could muster. Is it a manly thing, then, to draw steel upon an unarmed boy?
He let out a sharp laugh. You think it feminine, do you?
She slewed around in the saddle to face him. What I think it, is unchivalrous. I would expect you, as a knight, not to take unfair advantage of one in no position to defend himself.
She couldn't see his features, but she could hear the hardness beneath the heavy mockery in his voice as he said, Now, whatever made you expect such a foolish thing as that?
There are codes
I don't follow them. The Arab snorted and tossed its dark head with a jangle of its bridle as he abruptly drew rein and turned to her. What do you think? That because I am a knight, I live my life by some idealistic code of chivalry articulated by fat old priests, who tell me that I must be not only brave, strong, and true but also generous to the weak and an unthinking, unquestioning servant to the Holy Church?
She stared at him. You would question the teachings of the Holy Church?
When I've seen countless thousands of Saracen women, children, and old men put to the sword by the unthinking and unquestioning servants of that Holy Churchthe same Holy Church, mind you, that teaches its adherents that
Thou shalt not kill
then, yes, I question it.
But a knight's honor
Honor? He let out a harsh laugh. Believe me, the thought of young men dying needlessly because of their allegiance to some abstract concept of honor and loyalty might be noble. But I decided a long time ago that when it comes down to a choice between me fighting fairly and
dying or me gaining an unfair advantage over my opponent by stabbing him in the back first, the dagger in the back wins every time.
You're just saying that, she whispered.
He leaned closer, close enough for the faint moonlight to show her the stark planes of his sun-darkened face, close enough that she could see the faint flutter of his black hair as it moved against his strong throat in the night wind. Don't you believe it. You'd best get this straight right now, lordling: I am loyal to no one but myself, and the only code I follow is my own. He urged his horse forward and left her there to follow or not, as she pleased.
She sat staring after him, the reins slack in her hands, a strange, lonely ache burning fiercely in her chestan ache that was part sorrow, part yearning for some nameless thing she could not grasp. She didn't know how long she would have sat there, lost to exhaustion and her own private, suffocating wants and confusion, if Sergei hadn't come up beside her. The roan began to move of its own accord, following the other horses down the pale ribbon of road.
Why are we stopping? Attica asked, lifting her head to glance about in sudden confusion.
She realized she must have dozed, because to her surprise she found herself staring at the timber and wattle and daub facade of an inn that stood at a crossroads just outside the dark wooden palisade of some town. The gates of the town itself had long since been shut and barred against the night. But welcoming light and the enticing scent of roasting meat and good soup spilled from the inn's open
door. Attica's stomach rumbled loudly, reminding her just how long it had been since she'd last eaten.
Smells good, doesn't it? Sergei said, from so close beside her that she realized he must have been pacing her, watching carefully, ready to catch her if she started to slip from the saddle.
She turned her head to smile at him. Yes, except Her gaze traveled beyond the squire to de Jarnac, who slid out of his saddle with an enviable ease that told her he could have ridden through the night without pause. Why have we stopped here? she asked as the knight came at her out of the darkness.
Because you look as if you're about ready to topple off that horse, he said dryly. Let me give you a hand down.
He started to reach for her, but she touched her heel to the roan's side to send it dancing away. I can keep going, she insisted.
She heard his grunt of disbelief. I doubt it, he said, stepping back to plant his hands on his hips in that way he had that caught strangely at her breath. Besides, I lied. We're here because the horses need a rest and I'm hungry. Now get down.
He would have turned away then, but she stopped him by saying hotly, We can't stop; you know that. I must reach Laval in time to send a warning on to my brother.
De Jarnac swung to face her again, his head tipping back as he grinned up at her. Sweet Jesus. You're as worrisome as a woman. I've more than enough time to reach La Ferté-Bernard before anything happens. And I'll be of far more use to Henry when I get there if I haven't half killed myself on the road.
She stared at him. You? You are going to La Ferté-Bernard?
I told you I'd see your warning delivered. But right now I'm going to have myself a good supper and drink a horn of wine in a gesture of thanks to poor old Sir Odo, who is probably camped at this very moment in some damp meadow full of quarrelsome Spanish merchants and dreaming wistfully of milk-fed lamb and big-titted whores.
Attica had never heard of Sir Odo, but the casual reference to whores conjured up alarmingly lurid images that caused her to sit bolt upright in the saddle. Whores? she said with a gasp.
Whores?
I I do not think I wish to stay at this inn.
De Jarnac was already turning away from her, his gaze scanning the upstairs windows as he said, Stop fretting, lordling. The inn might be full, but I ought to be able to get a private chamber for us. I won't make you sleep in the attics with the riffraff.
At the words
private chamber
, Attica's stomach did a curious flip-flop. She threw herself off the roan so fast, her wobbly legs almost collapsed beneath her. No, wait, she cried.
But he had already disappeared through the door of the inn.
Some quarter of an hour later, Attica stood rooted to the doorway of the private chamber, the dead courtier's saddlebags clutched to her bound breasts like a shield as she let her gaze drift around the low-ceilinged room with its freshly whitewashed walls, its close-shuttered window, its glowing charcoal brazier adding a warm red hue to the golden flickering light of the cressets.
Not a palace, I admit, said de Jarnac, kicking off his boots. But at least it's surprisingly clean. He unbuckled his sword and tossed it onto the bed while Attica made an incoherent gurgling sound in her throat.
Oak framed and hung with crimson-dyed linen, the bed was widewide enough to sleep five, which it doubtlessly often did. She knew she should consider herself lucky to be given even this limited amount of privacy. After all, she could have found herself sleeping on a pallet in the loft along with the assorted book peddlers, cock masters, tinsmiths, jongleurs, and pilgrims who seemed to make up the majority of their fellow guests for the evening. Or she could have been expected to bed down in the hay of the stables with Sergei and the other guests grooms and squires. But those alternatives, which had once loomed frighteningly, now seemed oddly preferable to this this intimacy with this man.
Stop dawdling and close the door, said de Jarnac, pulling his tunic off over his head. The landlord's boy should be here soon with my water, and you're letting in the cold.
His hands dropped to the laces of his braies. Attica turned in a barely disguised panic and fled.
She washed as best she could at the well in the yard. The water was shudderingly cold and the night air chilled by the gusting breeze, and she had to be careful not to wet her hair, in case the dye she'd rubbed into it after leaving Châteauhaut should come off. Quickly drying her face and hands on a length of linen from the courtier's bags, all she could think about was how she longed to strip off her dusty clothes, as de Jarnac had doubtlessly done, and wash the dirt and sweat from her body with a basin of warm water. Or better yet, sink into a deep, sweetly scented, steaming bath.
Sighing, she bent to tuck the towel back into the satchel. The light from the torch near the stable flared, catching on
the edge of what looked like a book. Curious, she pulled it out, oddly affected to find herself staring at a small, plain breviary.
So this is what Olivier de Harcourt was asking for
, she thought sadly. With an unexpected twinge of sadness, she thrust the book back into the satchel and buckled it closed.
Tossing the bags over her shoulder, she crossed the manure-strewn yard toward the noise of the common room. At the bottom of the inn steps she paused, one hand on the railing, to stare uncertainly at the muted golden light that glowed through the cracks around the shuttered windows.
When the comtesse d'Alérion traveled, she stopped the night at abbeys or in the manor houses and castles of her class, where beds were always made available to noble travelers. Never in her life had Attica sat down to eat in the common room of an inn. On those rare occasions when Blanche did have need to pause at such a place, the comtesse would remain in her litter, resting in the shade of a tree, while servants were sent running to bring any required refreshment out to the yard.
Attica herself was too much the daughter of Robert d'Alériona rough, hard-drinking, loud-mouthed Norman knightto have grown up to share her mother's haughty arrogance. Yet there was no denying that the room before her was an alien world, and the thought of having to keep up this wearing pretense of maleness in front of so many peopleso many
men
made her heart sink.
Before she could give way to the cowardly impulse to retreat without supper to her bed, Attica ran up the three shallow steps to the door and pushed it open. A blast of warm, noisy air slammed into her with an impact that was almost physical. She found herself confronting a strange, dimly lit masculine world, murky with smoke from the
torches and thick with the smells of damp wool and male sweat and the fumes of spilt wine and ale. A confusing medley of rough voices and ribald laughter and one uninhibited, high-pitched feminine squeal swirled around her. She pushed herself forward, searching the room for a familiar pair of broad shoulders and a darkly handsome face amongst the unkempt heads and huddled forms of the strangers who jostled one another on the rough benches.
She saw an aging knight, his tunic tattered and shiny, his dark beard threaded with gray, and a ruined monk, his black hair bristly and stiff over the relic of his tonsure. Then a man's laugh rang out, deep and clear and blessedly familiar. She felt a flood of warm relief and turned.
De Jarnac sat at the table in the far corner, his back to the wall, the flare of a nearby rushlight glazing his high forehead and the sharp lines of his cheekbones. In place of his leather
broigne
, he wore a dark wool tunic that molded itself to his broad chest. As she watched, he lifted his cup and tilted back his head to drink. She saw his jaw bulge and the muscles of his tanned throat move as he swallowed. Then he lowered his head and his gaze met hers across the length of the room.
She watched his face break into a lazy, welcoming smile that was a wonder to her. Looking at him now, she thought, no one would ever suspect that only an hour or so ago he had held his naked sword pointed at her breast and threatened to kill her. She had always known men for strange, incomprehensible creatures. But as she wove her way toward him through the crowded trestle tables, Attica decided that a woman needed to dress as a man and go among them as one of their own for at least a day in order to truly understand just how illogical and absurd men really were.
There you are, lordling, he said, his gaze flicking over
the dark water stains on her velvet surcoat, his senses doubtlessly noting the cold night air that clung about her still. I was beginning to wonder if I should ask the innkeeper to drag his well. Best take a seat before they run out of food. There's a full house tonight.
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