Читать книгу The Maiden And The Warrior - Jacqueline Navin - Страница 12

Alayna would have never suspected that the new Lord of Gastonbury was feeling less than triumphant on this, the eve of his great victory.

As he made his way to the master’s chamber, Lucien wondered at his strange mood. He was tired, which was understandable. He had barely slept in the two weeks previous to the siege—the anticipation had been too intense. Yesterday and today he had fought hard, fought with everything in him. Fatigue was natural, of course. But this day had brought him the realization of his great dream. After all was said and done, there should be something more than weariness for him tonight.

He raked his hand through his hair with a vengeance and exhaled. He should feel exhilarated! Sweet revenge was his at last. Yet the darkness inside him still burned as strongly as it ever had.

Certainly there was all that nonsense with the young widow. She was a minx, that one. She put him to mind of his mother. Well, actually she was not very much like his dame except for her sharp tongue, though it was not cruel and used to wound as his mother’s had been, but rather self-righteous and angry. He did not really blame her, he could even empathize to a degree. He understood bitterness and the instinctive need for freedom; he had lived eleven years as a slave. But he was not about to let the soft lull of sympathy jeopardize his victory. The lovely Alayna was a powerful pawn in this gambit he played and, her feelings not withstanding, she was his.

He was suddenly struck with a clear image, one of eyes narrowed in contempt and a full, a pouty mouth set in a stern line, chestnut-colored hair swirling wildly around a sculpted face. He might as well admit, Edgar’s virgin bride was much on his mind. She was a spitfire, defiant and irreverent, and he had an aversion to women of a headstrong nature. She did, however, have a vitality he found stirring. That was it! That was what troubled him so deeply tonight. It was that unanticipated response that disturbed him. It was so unfamiliar that it eclipsed his mood and dominated his thoughts.

Annoyed with himself, Lucien scowled. As he passed a timorous servant, she bobbed a quick curtsy and smiled, but the dark expression he shot her caused the poor woman to shrink away.

He was not a man who played the fool for women. He had never needed to. His status as Norse slave had done nothing to discourage female interest during the cold Viking winters. Summers, too, for that matter.

While he had lived under the savage rule of one of the Northland’s most prodigious warmongers, his strength and skill in battle had distinguished him quickly as one of his master’s fiercest warriors. First pressed into service as a foot soldier, he had eventually become so valued that old Hendron would not dare slither from his lair without his English slave, who soon became his finest warrior.

Whether due to this status or his withdrawn, aloof manner, he had been much sought after by the women of the lodge. This never fazed him, nor did he think much about the beauties who had graced his bed. They were only important for the short time they had amused him, and then they were gone.

Nothing and no one had mattered except the secret dream of revenge. Agravar, of course, had been his one friend, but no one else had penetrated his brittle constraint, least of all a woman.

He had moved amongst his comrades in arms, much envied for his skill both in battle and in attracting the amorous interests of women, yet set apart, encased in the isolated chrysalis of carefully nurtured hate. But it was not only that which had kept him apart. He was never their equal. Old Hendron had made sure that though his warriorslave enjoyed sufficient freedoms to keep him content to fight for him, Lucien had never known a moment’s peace from the brutal and humiliating treatment his master doled out to remind him of his lowly position.

That was the past, only the past. He knew it, but somehow it seemed impossible those years were behind him. He would feel differently inside if it were truly over, wouldn’t he? Some spark of life, something to replace the vivid pain that had driven him thus far.

Maybe he would feel it in the morning, when he was rested and had a chance to put the rebellious Alayna out of his mind.

Lucien entered Edgar’s chamber, closing the door quietly behind him as if afraid to disturb the reverent silence of the place. No ghosts now, he was relieved to note, none of the disturbing press of memories that had earlier afflicted him when he was here before with Alayna. He saw the bloodied linens in a heap on the floor and smiled at the mental image of her tearing them off the bed. The evidence of her temper amused him.

There was another feeling there, as well. He was surprised to find himself a tiny bit ashamed of his deception.

The entrance of a young servant girl interrupted his thoughts. She carried a tray heaped with meats and bread, which she placed on the table by the towering hearth. He had ordered the food sent up to his chamber, wanting to escape the hall. Having forbidden his band of mercenaries the typical amusements of the victorious—none of his new villeins were to be harassed or assaulted—he was content to have set Agravar and Will to watch over the proceedings. He himself needed no such diversions. Tonight, he sought solitude.

Lucien realized he was ravenous. “Girl,” he called, making her jump. “Fetch some water and see it is well heated for me to wash.”

Lucien ate quickly while she was gone. When the servant returned with the water, he stripped to his chausses in preparation for a quick bath.

Indicating the heap of garments he had worn in battle, he said, “Beat the dust from my clothes, and hang them on pegs to air. There is no time to wash them, but I’ll not bear the stink of battle another day.”

She gave him a quick look, taking in his state of undress. Lucien was not too fatigued to notice the womanly curve of her hips under the crude garments. He had thought her young at first, for her face was round and flushed. But at closer glance, she was indeed a woman full grown.

Finishing his bath, he toweled himself off. She was not as graceful as he was used to, but pretty enough. Perhaps the company of a woman would ease the unrest that plagued him, and banish the haunting thoughts of flashing green eyes and an arrogant chin tilted at him in defiance. Lord, just the thought of Alayna made his jaw work in irritation.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Glenna,” she answered in a small voice. There was something about her, something that made him a bit suspicious of her play of innocence.

“How is it you were chosen to see to me tonight?” he inquired. “Were you not afraid like the others?”

“How did you know the others were afraid?” she blurted.

He smiled tightly. Women were so transparent. The girl had probably volunteered, moving quickly to put her pretty little self before him in hopes of winning his favor. The status of the lord’s leman was not a bad lot. The chosen woman shared her master’s bed, and in return won prestige and privilege. This one was crafty, pretending shyness as a ploy to catch his eye.

As if sensing the end to her ruse, she met his gaze a little too boldly, allowing herself a better look at him. Lucien watched her eyes slide over him, gradually darkening with desire. Her face and form were lush, and by rights should have been inviting, but he could barely seem to summon any interest. He mentally compared her to a slimmer form more to his liking. Stubbornly he pushed the intruding vision of Alayna aside. “Did you serve the old lord?”

She understood well enough what he was asking. “Aye,” she answered.

“You know what I seek?”

Glenna nodded, her eyes alight with anticipation. She stepped forward to close the gap between them and placed her arms about his neck.

“I know, my lord. I will not disappoint.”

Lucien felt his back stiffen in response. Even as she touched her lips to his, he knew he had made a mistake. He did not want her. He felt not the slightest stirring of desire at the voluptuous form pressed against him. He had wanted to quell the distressing preoccupation with another, but he was immediately aware that he would find no solace with this one.

He quickly reached his hands up to peel the fleshy arms from him.

Thinking he was breaking away to move to the bed, Glenna started for it, her hands already working to remove her woolen shift.

“Nay,” Lucien barked, “I am far too tired to dally tonight. Leave me.”

She looked startled, then smiled slowly as if in understanding. “If you are worried that your fatigue will afflict you, I will help you. Let me take—”

Lucien caught her outstretched arms by the wrists. “That is not my concern. I simply wish to be left alone.”

“But you—”

“A passing thought, one I acted upon too quickly.”

A flash of anger in her dark eyes surprised him. “Perhaps some other night, when you are better rested, you can call upon me. You will find me most willing…and accomplished.”

“No doubt,” Lucien murmured, presenting his back to her in dismissal.

“If there is anything else you require, at any time, call upon me.”

She was annoying him now. “Go,” he said curtly, not bothering to turn around.

He heard her leave and breathed a sigh of relief. He chided himself for his impulsiveness. Something about the girl disturbed him, something wrong about her. Or perhaps it was just his imagination. He was not normally given to flights of fancy, but then it was a strange mood he was in tonight. He grunted self-deprecatingly, wondering if perhaps he had gotten a knocked head in the fighting, scrambling his brains a bit.

But it was no injury that had driven him to consider the inadequate arms of the servant. As he flung himself atop the furs and let sleep descend, he knew that damnable witch Alayna had cast some sort of spell upon him. Never mind, he decided, no woman would divert him for long. He was much too disciplined for that.

He came awake with a start, instantly alert, knowing himself to be in a strange place. As memory washed over him, he relaxed back down amidst the furs.

His sleep had been dreamless. It had not improved his mood.

He rose from the bed, grimacing as his feet hit the cold stone floor. The chill of the lingering winter was bracing and he could see his breath like a puff of smoke in the air. He crossed to the hearth to stoke the fire, getting the blaze going before pulling on the thick woolen tunic he had worn yesterday. Abstractly he fingered the holes in the well-worn material. He could afford much better now. He should see to it when he found the time.

A sound at the door made him swing around, his hand darting to take hold of his sword lying across the table. He had it unsheathed and at the ready before the intruder crossed the threshold.

It was Glenna. “I thought you might need some assistance this morn,” she purred, not at all daunted by the gleaming steel he held. “Would you like some food sent up? Or perhaps some help in dressing?”

Lucien put down his blade. “Whatever I want, I will see that it is done myself. Go to the kitchens and ask if they can make use of you there.”

Glenna smiled, ignoring his order. “Do you not have use for me here?” Her hand came up to lightly touch his chest.

He grabbed her hand and pushed it away. “Do not let me see you in my chamber again.”

She paused, as if considering whether to obey. His anger rose, blinding him for a moment. Alayna had challenged him, but with her he had understood it. She had fought him as one who is backed into a corner. This servant’s defiance caused his temper to flare almost out of control.

If she had not had the presence of mind to leave him, he might have done something rash. He had never lifted a hand to a woman, no matter what his opinion of that sex, and it would do his purposes no good if he began his reign here by beating one of the servants.

Lucien laid his weapons out neatly on the table, ready to be cleaned, and finished dressing. A footfall behind him alerted him to a new presence. He lifted his head to see Agravar standing just inside the doorway.

“So you decided to quit your lazing about and rise at long last,” Agravar said with a smirk. “Your late morning has nothing to do with that pretty piece I just saw leaving here, I trust.”

“’Tis just sunrise now,” Lucien grumbled, “and nay, that inane servant did not stay with me last night. You know me better.”

“I thought I did,” the Viking answered mysteriously. He looked about the room, appreciatively eyeing the ornate furnishings and elegant appointments. “I see you have wasted no time in doffing the crude ways of the soldier in favor of this lordly elegance.”

Lucien followed his gaze. The furnishings were numerous, large and thickly carved, hardly suited to his Spartan tastes. A thought crossed his mind as he considered the room. Something was different. Now that he saw it again in the light, as he had the first time yestermorn, it seemed somehow changed. As if something were missing. With a shrug, he abandoned the thought. He turned to Agravar, giving him a grim look.

“It will need to be stripped of these odious reminders,” he stated, indicating the incompatible finery.

Agravar grew serious. “I hope it did not disturb your sleep to be in this place. I know well how those memories torment you. I thought perhaps you would wait before taking on this particular one.”

Lucien shrugged. “It was not difficult, actually.”

Agravar chuckled. “There is nothing like the diversion of a woman to ease a troubled night. A willing maid can make all the difference when a man has a restlessness in him.”

Lucien shook his head at his friend. “I did not have the damnable girl!”

Agravar laughed. “I believe you. I know your habits. I would think that another would be more to your taste.” He crossed to the window, easing open the shutter to peer into the courtyard below. The castle was already bustling with activity as the serfs hurried to complete their morning chores. “One cannot help but wonder how the widow has fared this night.”

“More likely she laments the loss of the riches Edgar brought her.” Lucien shot him a scowl. “Do you bring news?”

“Aye. I have dispatched the scouts to the areas you assigned. The landholders return to their fiefs soon.”

“Did you instruct the seneschal to prepare the written accounts of the household?”

Agravar nodded.

“Good. I want the entire contents of the castle inventoried, and the village, as well. Also, set up a forum where disputes can be brought before me. I want to establish justice quickly so that none can take advantage of the confusion to better his own lot.”

“You cannot prevent that,” Agravar said abstractly. Lucien was aware the Norseman was observing him.

“What is it?” Lucien snapped.

“What?”

“There is something troubling you. Out with it. There have never been any secrets between us.”

Agravar paused, shrugged, then settled into one of the hearth chairs. His hand played with the hilt of a knife on the table. Lucien saw it was the dirk he had used to slit his hand yesterday.

“You seem no different, Lucien. There is no less bitterness in you this day than all of the others since I have known you.”

Lucien’s head shot up as he leveled a wary glare at Agravar. His companion continued unperturbed. “It went as you planned. Our army met with little resistance and you yourself dispatched Edgar. You acted with honor and have won all you sought. Yet I cannot help but wonder if it is all truly settled.”

Lucien sat on a footstool by the raised stone of the fireplace, taking up his sharpening stone and one of the weapons. He drew the steel across the stone, making a cold, ringing sound. It was an activity familiar and calming.

Agravar said, “Nay, I see that it has done little to quell the demons that plague you. Nor mine, old friend.”

Lucien shrugged, a casual gesture belied by the tension in his voice. “There is still much to be done. This is not over. My dame remains untroubled, safe in her convent. Is that not the greatest jest, Agravar—my mother has made her home these last eleven years with a gaggle of nuns?” His expression looked grim, not in the least amused. “I must reckon with that woman when the time is right. Perhaps therein lies my peace.”

“Peace,” Agravar mused. “Is such a thing possible for us? Or are we too used to the killing to rest now that all we have sought is within our grasp at last? Why do we not take it, then, and be satisfied?”

Lucien shook his head in honest bewilderment. “Domesticity, Agravar. Perhaps it does not suit us. What a stagnant prospect—to be a country baron without battle to stir my blood.” Nodding, Lucien’s confidence in this explanation grew. “Aye, that is it. I fear this soft life I have won for myself. This is what ails me.”

“I have been thinking,” Agravar said. “Perhaps the time for hate is over.”

“The time for hate is over,” Lucien repeated in a soft, almost wistful voice. He eyed the blade he had sharpened, savoring the clean lines and purity of form in the simple weapon. The incongruity of honing the razor-sharp steel while having this conversation struck him, and he smiled to himself. He sheathed the dagger and took up another. “How does one learn to live without the very sustenance of survival?”

Agravar paused. “Perhaps we cannot. But I tire of the constant battle. It would suit me, I think, to put aside the ways of war and settle into a moderate life. To mount these broadswords upon the wall and look on them as ornaments, telling the tales of the battles we had once waged to our children, and their children after that.”

Lucien grimaced at the picture, then eyed the array of weapons that awaited his attention. No ornaments, these, they were the tools of his trade, the only life he knew.

Agravar spoke again. “I am the bastard son of a Viking raider, a symbol of my noble mother’s disgrace, despised before I was even born.” There was no emotion in his voice, it was a tale he had talked of often to his friend. “When I traveled to my father’s lands to meet my sire, I thought that finding him would bring me peace. You know as well as I how that turned out. Hendron was nothing but a vicious warmonger, no father for a son to admire. I found instead a brother, for we share the common bond, you and I. I, like you, used rage to fashion myself a warrior. I never thought of a life other than war. But my bitterness has run out. I am tired of this cursed life as an outcast. I weary of the fight.”

“You wish to go to the soft ways of country squire, do you, friend?” Lucien scoffed. “Well, I am not done with my vengeance. Peace will come when I have finished what I have set out to do. When Gastonbury is mine by Henry’s decree, and my mother is groveling at my feet, then I shall rest easy.”

Lucien wiped the last of the dried blood from his sword and carefully placed it in the scabbard. When he was done, he faced Agravar.

“If not for you, I would not have come this far. You gave your own father up to me, and that is a favor I shall not forget. But my grudge will end for me when it will, Agravar. Seek your lot elsewhere if you must, but the time for gentle living is not yet here for me.”

Agravar shook his head. “I will remain.”

Lucien nodded stiffly and preceded the Viking out the door. As they walked into the hall, they spoke tactfully of other matters.

“I have ordered the kitchens to prepare a celebration this eve, not of victory but of new loyalties and fealty ties. A calmer feast than was seen last night.”

“Tonight is soon,” Agravar considered.

“I want it so, before the castellans who were here for Edgar’s wedding leave for home. A feast may do much to heal the breach.”

Agravar gave him a long look, then smiled. “Perhaps, old friend, you are more suited to this life than you believe.”