Читать книгу Ironheart - Emily French - Страница 11

Leon set his weapon belt on the bench nearest the bed, thinking how unexpected this all was, lodging in the room that had been Brenig’s own in his youth. He hoped he was wrong, but he did not take for granted all that he could.

Wales was a savage and rebellious place, with great mountains and strange customs. Odd things happened, and law was a matter of local option. Beyond the Dee the land turned primitive, towns and villages growing fewer, hill and forest rising toward the western mountains. The rumors were dark here, tales of marauders upon the roads, villages sacked and burned.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and tugged off his boots. Suspicions had begun to move about inside his mind, causing swirls and ripples of unease like the movements of something large and ominous lurking beneath the surface of deep water. Had not the king but lately revoked the title of Lord of the Northern Marches, throwing this western realm into turmoil and confusion? Had not the same king dug up old grudges from his childhood days and found reasons to heckle and harass that obliged Lord Fulk to flee from Whittington?

Why? The answer was as simple as it was distressing. The king had deliberately unleashed a potentially explosive power struggle to distract his increasingly antagonist parliament from what was happening in his provinces on the other side of the English Channel.

Leon knew what would happen. The plots would multiply until those who sought to take Fulk FitzWarren’s place would be overwhelmed. He also knew that the Brenigs were political animals. Intrigue was second nature to them.

He was no novice in deceit, but mayhap he was suspicious and uncharitable even to suspect Brenig treachery in housing him in this grand chamber—without ascertaining who he was—as he was suspicious and uncharitable to suspect Brenig treachery in permitting the heiress, with no guards, risking danger—

Only Brenna had faced no danger of alleged outlaws. The rescue, if rescue it could be called, was so easy as to be ridiculous.

Too easy.

There had been guards within call, and the boys Telyn and Tudur ready to call the alarm. He liked that stroke; he truly did. A fine jest, if it were not so reckless. Respectful. Convincing, if less in the province were amiss.

A brief flash of lightning chased the shadows. Thunder cracked close. Rain thumped down as if scattered by an enormous hand. The wind battered against the shutters, making the timber slats dance to its rhythm. He crossed the room, unlacing cuffs, collar, and side laces and hauled off shirt and tunic together, before throwing open the shutters. The wind gusted in through the slitted window, setting the candles fluttering wildly.

Too much, he thought, beginning to sway. Too much. The feeling of falling clung to him like a shroud. His head throbbed. He was having trouble focusing his eyes. He put his hand to his head. Abruptly the realization came that he had a lump on his skull the size of an egg.

Disposing his clothes on the peg against the wall, he stripped off his filthy breeches and reached out again for his shirt. He retrieved the amulet from its hiding place, and took it in his hand, feeling a warmth where it touched his palm, a sweet, sad warmth.

Memory, swift and involuntary: a dark night, a pale face out of which two eyes stared like living cinder, a vow. It was nostalgia, but he held it fast, and it sang to him of elvish dreams and memories. It took him back so vividly.

He’d had a dream of changing the world in his golden youth, when such things were possible…

And he’d gone all the way to the Holy Land.

But that was not far enough for his troubles, not far enough for safety from falsehood and deceit, his foster father’s scheming, his own damnable stupidity—

He shook his head, and laughed angrily, giddily, to himself. He tucked the amulet into his weapon belt and stood in front of the slitted window, shivering in the wind that blew in out of the dark, in the hope that the damp air would clear his wits.

Brenna hurried along the corridor ahead of the servants, and wondered why she had left Aubrey so suddenly. Why was she so beset by doubts? Surely there was no harm in kissing her betrothed on the very eve of their marriage? She thought of the ceremony to take place on the Sabbath, and of how this storm would not be viewed as a particularly good omen…

There was an air of chill in the chamber as she entered, despite the cheerful fire burning on the hearth. His bulky shape was outlined by lightning from without and the contours of him shone where they caught the light.

She stood, stone-still. The light burnished his hair and accentuated the planes of his handsome face, transforming it for her into something splendid, something awesome. The perfect tapestry of one half of his face was a splendid foil to the tracery of livid white scars on the other cheek. The contrast was absolute.

It was not the face of a scholar or a seer; it was the battle-hardened face of a warrior, a man who had faced death and would not allow its dark promise to control him.

The face was dauntless—but the eyes were striking. Shielded by thick sable lashes, they were his best feature, eagle-keen and very clear. She’d liked their singular silvery color, so translucent they took color from lake or moss or stone.

The light shone, too, on the rest of him, bathing him in a nimbus of flame and making his bared skin gleam ruddy. He had removed his outer garments, and was wearing only his linen loincloth. She found it impossible not to stare, transfixed, listening to the wild beating of her heart.

He appeared incredibly beautiful, his shoulders wide, the skin of his chest stretched taut across his squared muscles. His abdomen was flat and without superfluous flesh. In the pulsing light, his massive torso looked as though it had bathed in iron dust. Even the down on his chest had a peculiar metal sheen. But his whole body was a map of injuries and hurts, old and new, and his arms were laced with myriad scars that served further proof he kept his livelihood by the sword. This was not, she thought, a man to cross.

The thunder grew louder. A gust of wind sent the lamps and candles flickering. It also restored her senses.

“You’ll catch the death of cold with that damp wind!”

She went to the doorway and clapped her hands. A clutch of servants came in bearing a huge wooden tub, which they set in a corner behind a screen, away from the draught, and filled with successive pails of steaming water. Others appeared, carrying towels and fresh clothing, which they placed on a low table that stood close to the tub.

Leon went and stood by the fireside, warming the shivers and the aches of travel from his bones as he waited for the servants to finish their business and leave. With eyes that burned from exhaustion, he watched them all gather by the tub, and Brenna told them she would help him with his bath. She breezed past them to his side.

“If you’ll just allow me—”

“Desist, woman!” Servants scattered. He barely noticed. “Stop that at once!” He brushed in vain at her helpful hands.

“What is wrong?”

A gasp sounded behind. Brenna clapped her hands, stifled the servants somewhat, and shooed them out.

“I’ll not have a husband who scares the maids witless with all that grumpiness. Now if you’ll be so kind—” She flung up her hands.

That brought him to a halt. His ears were going. Had he heard that? “Husband?”

She turned back and stood very close to him, but this time standing rigid, with her arms folded under her breasts. Fine tremors moved the tendrils of her hair, as if a qualm of fear shook her courage. “That is what I said.” Her face was calm and as still as a brushed porcelain mask. Bland as if it were a foregone conclusion. As if none of it were uncertain.

“What brought that to mind?”

“You are always answering a question with another question!”

“Just a peculiar topic to bring up now,” he said.

“Not at all. With all the political talk going on, ’tis natural to be thinking of the future, but we can discuss it later.”

“You’re crazy!”

“My father’s word was reckless.”

“Perhaps he was sparing in his praise.”

She spoiled the exquisite mask by squinting through a dark waterfall of hair at him. “You are merely evil-tempered because you cannot bear the fact that you, my stalwart rescuer, have mislaid your armor.” Her voice sparkled with hints of laughter.

“You carry on like a raucous crow.”

Brenna flushed, but her eyes were steady. “And you have a temper like soured wine.” A firm hand planted itself on his chest. “You will get a fever if you stand there naked much longer.”

Leon stiffened, but her hand did not move. Her eyes touched his chest, his flat stomach and hips and his…

He glanced down. His eyes grew very wide and still. His heart jumped and started hammering. While he’d glowered at her, she had industriously peeled off the linen undergarment.

Brenna standing there dressed and he—

He felt his groin grow heavy as thick blood pooled in his lower belly. His reaction must be blindingly obvious, he thought. A cold feeling spread all down his back into his legs. If a seasoned warrior reacted in this way, pity help her poor silly young suitors. His teeth gritted. His lips peeled back from his teeth.

“You need not stay.”

“Do you want the maids to see you like this?” Her tone was blank, void of cues, but her breast rose with each breath and the way she avoided looking at him, as if her interest in him were all his fault, was highly amusing. She gestured to the water invitingly.

Leon bit back a retort. It would do no good. He could think of nothing to say that would not make matters worse. His body betrayed him. Surrender, for now, was the only strategy.

Still frowning, he climbed in, yielding to the temptation of a hot bath in a tub that was big enough to hold a man of his great stature. The water was so hot his toes tingled. Gingerly, he sat, glad of the debilitating heat of the water. He let go a long breath and looked up from under his brows.

“Well, lady, for what do you wait?”

She slapped a big bar of brown soap into his hand. “Wash yourself with this. I’ll get some oil.”

Brenna hurried to the carved chest, as if suddenly appalled at her boldness. There was an awkward silence while she unstopped a bottle and added a few drops of sweet-smelling oil to the water.

Leon suspected she was rarely so tongue-tied; any girl who looked like this one did would have learned at an early age how to make the most of her assets. He rubbed his chin with both hands, feeling the stubble from several days’ growth scratch the skin of his palms. No doubt he stank of sweat and grime and horse. He truly needed to bathe, and he could not deny it would be pleasant to have the woman tend him.

He held out the bar of soap. “Come, wash my back.”

Her blush deepened. She pressed her hands together quickly, nervously. Bending over, she took the soap from his hand and rubbed it against a linen cloth. She touched him hesitantly, as if not sure of where she should begin or exactly what she should do. The hands were soft and gentle and the hot soapy water against his skin felt delicious. Her fingers traced the steel tendon that ran down the back of his neck to his spine. He felt the thick muscles of his back bunch at her touch.

“It’s not too hot, is it?”

“No.”

She moved her foot. Her knee was not far from his shoulder. The out-flung length of one leg. Her slender ankle and the pointed toe of her shoe. The innocence of her pose created the eroticism of the moment. Intensifying so that he felt the stirring inside himself. Not merely his groin. All over. He was suffused with longing. His manhood was stiff and quivering. As if it were his whole body.

“May I?” Her hands massaged his neck and the back of his head and the massive muscle that joined his head to his shoulders. She stroked his hair. Pain rushed up his temple, rang like hooves drumming clay. He could not help the small shudder that ran through him. She jerked her hand back. “You’ve got a lump on the side of your head the size of an egg!”

“I was a trifle careless,” he said, keeping his voice light.

She pursed her lips, as if she wished she could say otherwise. “That may be true, but your hair still needs a wash,” she said, her voice holding mild reproof.

He ducked down under the surface long enough to count to twenty, and to want air. He broke surface again. For a heartbeat his eyes locked with hers.

“Do what you want. I won’t stop you.”

Brenna gnawed her lip, edged closer and let go a breath. “I will try not to hurt you.”

He tipped his head back while she washed out his hair, combing through the snarls with gentle fingers, trying not to feel anything, remember anything, wonder anything.

“Close your eyes,” she ordered, running a soapy finger over each eyelid. Her hands were light, moth-delicate, on his forehead. “Why do you shave your beard?”

“It makes me remember who I am, what I’m for. It keeps me from growing too proud.”

“What a load of nonsense!”

“Then the truth it must be. It’s hot. It’s red. It itches,” he mumbled.

Her laughter was sudden and heart-deep, a ripple of pure notes. “With golden hair and red beard, you’d look like a great marmalade cat.”

“Another reason to shave!”

Brenna followed the contours of his wide shoulders down his arms, where the water glistened among red-gold hairs. He sighed and felt the tension ebbing out of him. He melted back against the rim of the tub. Steam rose, hanging in the air a moment before drifting upward. She added a few more drops of scent to the water, and the oil floated toward him in little round drops, coating his chest and belly. His muscles soaked in it, reveled in the heat.

Soft lips half parted, she lathered the thick mat on his chest vigorously, her hands small and light against the hard flesh. She slid her hands down his belly, through crisp tangles of gold. Her soapy hands circled lower and lower. Though he sighed with pleasure, Leon didn’t think that was a good idea. Hot male need surged through his veins at her maddening touch. He asked himself if he was being seduced, or if she was…taking a stupid chance, if that was what was happening. He slid deeper into the tub, shielding his arousal slightly.

Slowly, gracefully as the fall of a feather, she moved to the end of the tub and motioned for a leg to come out. Ignoring his muffled protest, she leaned against the tub and began lathering it, sliding one finger along a deep scar hollow above the knee. His thigh shot jagged stabs and convulsed into shivering. He tried to relax his body, to go limp.

Brenna looked down, leaned back against her heels, shoving a lock of her black hair back over one shoulder. “Won’t you even talk to me?” she said in a small voice.

“There is nothing to talk about.”

“You mean, you have nothing to say to me.”

Leon knew he had missed something there. She would not meet his eyes. She seemed strangely tense: a coiled spring. He thought that she was angry; but why should she be? She was female. There was no accounting for her moods.

“That is not at all what I meant.”

“But it is!”

Leon frowned at her, wishing he knew what had happened. One moment she had been open and friendly; the next she exuded all the fire of a woman scorned. He rolled his eyes and sat up, sighing with exasperation.

“I will not play this game.”

“I will not let you turn this back on me.” There was an edge to her voice now. “You’re the one who—”

“This is not the time—”

“Not the time? You must be joking! There is nothing more important for us to do.”

For a moment things stayed as they were, balanced on a knife’s edge of Brenna’s temper and his nerves. Then he felt the anger unwind, slowly, into a quieter disturbance. A few more breaths. “Isn’t there?”

Without warning, she poured a dipper of herb-scented water over his head. He swallowed hard, half choking, gulped air and outrage, blinked water from his eyes, and snapped two pungent words.

“Oh—you are annoyed—you have a tongue like an ox whip!” His first impulse was to upend her and apply a hand to her derriere. Then she grinned at him with disarming candor. “Forgive me, but I get carried away sometimes!”

Leon snorted and blew water from his mouth. “How dare you—” It came as a half shriek, so disgraceful that it shattered all his anger. Laughter rose to fill the void: breathless, helpless laughter that loosened all his bones and left him half choking.

Her own laughter died with his, but a smile lingered; her eyes danced. “’Tis a ritual to drown the fleas!”

“Blast your impudence!” He surged to his feet and flung hair out of his eyes in a spray of water. A shower of droplets flew in a great arc to land on her gown, the sodden fabric outlining her bosom, leaving little to his imagination. He reached for the linen she was holding, and snatched it ’round himself, splashing the floor as he stepped out.

“Perhaps it was rash—”

“Perhaps!”

“’Twas an outrageous liberty. Most men would be foaming at the mouth by now.”

Leon didn’t care. For one thing, a ragged spike of agony lanced through his skull. There was a buzzing like a swarm of bees inside his head. His vision was blurring again. He stood there, totally overwhelmed by it all.

“Oh, mercy! You are not well!” she said, and put a quick hand under his elbow to steady him as he swayed. Leon shook her off, steadying with an effort.

“It’s nothing.”

He stood there, not daring to move. Now his entire body convulsed. His flesh burned. He felt chills even in the midst of all this heat. His legs were turning to water. He tottered.

“Dizzy,” he mumbled, his voice half drowned by a peal of thunder.

Brenna caught his arm, forcefully, this time. “Don’t tax yourself! You’re wasting energy arguing.”

This time he let her lay hands on him, allowing her to draw him across the room, into the alcove that held the bed, though he would not sit. “God’s breath, woman. ’Tis but a touch of wet fever, nothing more.”

“Stuff and nonsense. That lump on your head has addled your brains.”

He let out all his breath in one huff. “Don’t fuss, woman. I’ve suffered worse blows than that charging at quintains.”

“I trust you are correct, but hardly prudent. My good sense tells me that such a blow can be fatal if there is brain damage.”

“’Tis but a bump.”

“Even a bump can be fatal.” Her voice was low, steady, unyielding.

“Would you have me dead?”

“Don’t talk so! That lump on your head has addled your wits,” Brenna blurted, then winced, as if regretting her words as soon as she had spoken them. “I—I am sorry. It is not my place to…”

“You need not apologize. I’m not offended, just tired.”

The bed was in front of him. It looked vast and inviting. And perhaps it was imprudent and tempting his own ironclad resolve to test himself against that wide-eyed expression, the full lips, the midnight cloud of curls and swell of bosom so boldly designed to entice a man. What had the scriptures said about Eve tempting Adam with forbidden fruit? But then came a bewildering thought. If Adam had been in Eden with Brenna instead of Eve, he would not have minded being cast out of Paradise, not as long as she went with him!

“I can see that you are ill, very ill.” Her reply rang out and yet was muted by the howl of the wind. “You belong in bed.”

Why not? Why not? He rubbed his forehead, and gave up any notion he might have of resistance.

“I am not well, yes—” he managed finally. The last of his coherence was fleeing. “The heat…my head—”

“Sit,” she told him now. “Easy now, take it easy.”

She let him slide from her arm to sit on the bed. Cradling his head in her hands as if it were an egg, she lowered it onto the pillow. A grunt this time from him. He sprawled on his back, squinched his eyes shut, and he was only too glad to do so, weary as he was, his body racked by violent shivers. A dry towel was placed discreetly across his loins. A hand tangled in his hair, one finger stroking across his forehead repetitiously.

“Don’t try to get up. You’ll do yourself a lasting harm.”

“Go away! Leave me alone!” he raged at her.

She did; and then he was sorry for the silence.

The hall thrummed with sound, for everyone in the hold ate in the great chamber. Fire crackled in the hearth and they all were gathered, young and old, with the warm air smelling as the hall always smelled, of wood chips and resins and leathers and furs and good cooking.

Brenna spared no glances for those who sat at the narrow trestle tables. Her attention was on the dais at the far end. Facing them all, Sir Edmund sat at the center of the high table, his sister the widowed Lady Alice at his left, his other sister the indomitable Lady Agnita at his right, thin and upright. The gray-clad priest sat elbow-to-elbow with the Lady Alice, and the harper sat with them. But many seats at the great table stayed vacant, the hall of a hold long at war, its male heirs decimated.

“Your pardon for my lateness, Grandfather.”

Sated and drowsy from rich food and drink, Sir Edmund nodded over his cup. “We will forgive your lateness, Brenna, now that you grace our table with your beauty.”

Brenna walked around the dais to settle beside her great-aunt. Lady Agnita flicked her gaze up from her trencher. “It seems your fine knight has declined to break bread with us.”

“He rests. He has traveled hard.”

“In my day, a knight could travel far and little notice it.”

“Aye, but ’tis oft times said that things are not what they were.”

Brenna looked away from her aunt and flicked a glance around the hall. Despite the weather, guests had arrived from near and far for the week-long marriage celebrations that were to include combat contests, sword fights, horse shows and displays by artisans and master craftsmen from every guild.

Sir Edmund called for more jugs of beer and cordial, and waved expansively to the gathered company. A gust whipped at the tapestries and sent the lamps and candles flickering, casting illusory warmth on gray stone walls. For a moment tapestries and banners blazed out above the tables. High in the sooty rafters, smoke from the great hearth eddied about like a manmade mist.

“So,” Agnita said, turning to her. “Why do you look so forlorn, child?”

Brenna seized the moment to speak up. “Aunt, what is all this nonsense Elen tells me about Keith Kil Coed?”

Agnita shrugged. “Not much more than you already know.” She lowered her voice. “Edmund’s been set thoroughly on edge. He says that Keith will be arriving at Dinas Bran on the morrow. He hopes to convince you that he is a better proposition than Aubrey of Leeds.”

Brenna gasped. If Grandy saw some seriousness in the matter…the complications were threatening to overwhelm her. “I cannot believe anyone would expect me to abandon my betrothed at the altar!”

“I realize that, child,” Agnita replied, her expression serious. “But don’t despair. Edmund is a wily old rooster.”

“And Keith is overreaching his ambitions! Can’t we stop him?”

“’Tis too late to stop him. He has already left Craignant and begun his journey here. We do not know what route he travels, so we must do as best we can.” Was there a hint of warning in the soft, smooth tones?

Brenna had taken a wedge of cheese and begun to break it. It crumbled in her tensed fingers, falling unheeded to her trencher. “I pray that there is no trouble.”

“Speaking of which,” Sir Edmund said, leaning toward Brenna. “What is this I hear about the near mishap at the postern?”

Brenna shrugged. “Naught but a minor scuffle, Grandy. My knight did his duty well. The villains were caught.”

“You try me sorely, Brenna, with your recklessness!”

“It is raining again,” Lady Alice said unnecessarily: the sound of it on the horn windowpanes behind them was audible over the conversation in the hall.

“Maybe there’s a reason.” The priest bent and looked straight into Brenna’s eyes, so that her heart beat a little faster. “Mayhap—someone—is responsible for the storms?”

A few audible murmurs traveled around the tables. She heard people mutter—sorcery…

“That is impossible, and I believe you may have the wit to realize that—” Brenna started to protest, but frowned and thought on it, on the rain, the unrelenting winds. Surely no one could control the weather? She stared down at her trencher of thick wheaten bread. “Mortals have no governance over the weather.”

The priest frowned, hearing that. “A jest, if you please. Though this rain is most unseasonable and despite the Holy Father’s decree, the hedge wizards sell their charms in the market and practice sinful acts in private.”

“They need not be sorcerous.”

“That is blasphemous.”

This was a priest, Brenna told herself. A simple district priest. Why were folk so fearful of what they did not understand or what was different?

“Mayhap, Our Lord sends a second flood to show us His displeasure,” she murmured.

The priest nodded piously. “In truth, ’tis a very great possibility.”

Brenna gathered up a thick wedge of sheep-milk cheese and some bread. “Well, ’tis a pleasant conversation, but I fear it must end, or I shall never get to bed this night. I must be off. I will see you all on the morrow.”

“Where to in such haste?” asked Sir Edmund.

A lie tempted Brenna. She rejected it and looked her grandfather in the eye. “For whatever it’s worth, I’m off to prepare a potion and wish the rain on another region.”

Sir Edmund scowled. “Wish a littler harder then.”

Brenna tiptoed closer to the embroidered bed hangings.

“Aubrey!” she whispered under her breath. He made no sign. A prickly aura of awareness breathed over her skin, crisp and distinct as cold air.

Suddenly she was very much afraid…

She shivered and shook her head as thoughts uncalled-for ran like ice melt through her brain. Was he…was he unconscious? Was he…dead? Her doubt turned to sudden, over-mastering dread that urged her forward.

“Aubrey!” she said again, and finding herself close to him she bent and very lightly touched his shoulder. He moved then, and she almost gasped with relief.

“What—?” he said, lifting his head. He blinked, frowned, his nose a handspan from hers. His face was flushed and his lips a set line. Shadows slipped across his eyes as if things moved, troubled, in his memory.

“Drink this. ’Tis but a simple tisane to take away the headache and ease the fever.” She cradled his head in her arms, feeling inside her a warmth that bordered on love. He made a sound between a sigh and a grunt, and obediently swallowed sips of the mixture. Carefully she relaxed her forearm, laying his head upon the pillow. “Now listen to me, I don’t want you out of this bed except to use the chamber pot. Do you understand?”

His eyes closed. “Aye.”

“Good.” Raindrops spattered through the window slit, a sudden gust of storm. She went to close the shutters. “I’m going back downstairs. I have chores to do. You stay in bed, hear?”

“Aye.” Faintly.

She forced a smile to her lips. “See that you do.”

Darkness, and a scent of herbs, and a deep sense of peace pervaded the workshop. Brenna carefully set the lamp on a stand. Its feeble glow barely reached the walls of the herbarium. Neatly arranged on wooden shelves that ran up the wall, sat her herbs and powders and whatnots, each resting in small pottery jars. A large white dog rose from its place by the fireplace and ambled toward her, its tail swinging side to side.