by Gayle Eden
“Did it nay matter what her knight’s confided in ye, Ronan?”
Half expecting that, Ronan met those green eyes through his mask and replied, “I have wed her, haven’t I? I have given her protection and put her out of his reach.”
The Celt’s expression turned sardonic. “Tha’ nay be what I mean, and ye know it.”
“You’ve been with Pagan and myself so long, that you no longer see the obvious, Ualtar.”
“I see it. The Lady Illara saw it, and it ma’ no difference to her—
“No.” Ronan’s eyes bore this time. “But neither am I pagan.”
He turned to enter the castle, and then turned back, finding his friend still looking at him. “I cannot kill her husband for her. He is dead already. However, I will kill the uncle, given the chance. As my wife, under any circumstance, she will have that pledge.”
“I nay doubted that.”
Ronan grit, “Then let the rest go.”
The Celt did not waver. “Ye’ve cleared yer family, yourself and Pagan, and ye’ve still enough wealth and fierce reputation to be a man few would challenge. Why won’t you heal yer own wounds, my friend.” Ualtar turned away, striding toward the wagons.
Ronan stared after him unseeing. Sblood. He wished that Sefare’s knights had not felt compelled to seek him out and offer up an account of her life beforehand. He wished, that he had not shown his reaction when they spoke of the Di Matteo males, the sort of family they had been, and the way they treated their spouses and daughters.
He had heard enough to enrage him, and aye, to inspire disgust. Although many such Lords, and knights were brutal and abusive. With his own knights, the Count was apparently ruthless, a tyrant, disliked and mistrusted. A powerful family in that country. Ronan was not surprised at any corruption, inward or outward. Moreover, there were tales of Sefare’s missing brother that troubled Ronan—the half-Arab brother whom the knights had heard the Count call a Saracen bastard. Though many who returned from Holy wars and lands filled with Turks and Arabs and Egyptians had sailed to England leaving bastards behind, or bringing slaves—or soldiers, with them, who wished to live here. Men like the di Matteo Count considered themselves Christians, killing devils in that land. They would never understand Sefare’s father claiming a concubine’s son. Nor even would he approve of Illara’s Egyptian mother, Ronan realized.
Apparently, Sefare’s sire had fathered the boy on his first trip to the Holy land. When he wed some years later to Sefare’s mother, who was the daughter of his best knight, the wife did not object to the lad who was already in his army, and who was already claimed as Lord Oldof’s.
The Lord’s ancestors were a mixture of Norsemen and muddled up with Jewish and Arab traders back through time. He was fierce and feared enough, impressive enough in battle, to do as he pleased and be damned with opinion.
Having ridden with Lord John of Thresford, Ronan and Pagan had likely joined on the battlefield with Oldof’s army. However, there were many fierce and impressive men there; he could not remember them all.
There were hints among Sefare’s knights that Oldof had lived to regret giving his young daughter to the Count—but that he had died in battle, the wife in fever on her way back to England… and could only swear his son to see if tales of the Count’s cruelty were true. There was evidence that Mshai had made it to England, had contacted her, and hired out his sword to an overlord. Nevertheless, there was something foul in his sudden disappearance…
However, it was not those tales that kept Ronan without sleep the night before—
He turned and entered the castle, going through massive oak and iron doors, and then poised a moment in a great hall that was yawning. He had lived this much of his manhood with reality—somewhere in the back of his mind was a reflection of a comely unscarred lad that always stared in horror and fought against what he now was. He had lived too long with bitterness and vengeance kindling that fire in his guts. He did not want or need the kind of healing that Ualtar alluded to.
Ronan pulled off his gauntlets, unbuckling his breastplate and slipping it over his head, exposing the mail linen, and leather, under it. Each layer was as if his real skin now, used to hardness and fearful stares aye, he desired that. It served his purpose. He would not bare himself in any manner. Illara was the exception, having seen his face, she was unique, handsome enough, but not beautiful. Not like….his wife.
“My Lord.”
He turned and spied one of the young lads he had collected while passing through an impoverished village. Tall and lanky, dressed in leather breeches, boots, and a homespun hooded shirt, the boy had a squarish face, light brown eyes and long hair of similar hue.
“I was sent, by the Celt. To assist you. If it pleases you, milord.”
Ronan nodded and the boy, for all his leanness took the breastplate without grunting under its weight. Ronan stood still as he unlatched the rest of his armor.
“I’ll see it cleaned if you’ll show me the chambers. And I’m to see to your trunks and wardrobe… whatever you require, milord.”
Ronan had no idea where his chambers would be. He turned and took the thick stairs, emerging in the first arched hallway.
“There, you may take that room.” He pointed absently, and after the lad entered, moved on, at last seeing what was a divided solar.
The section he entered had a massive hearth, a scattering of chairs and trunks, a table of sorts with leather and wood chair at the head. There was a long copper tub slid under the dripping spout sticking from the wall. He went toward it but turned back to light some of the thick candles in the room, feeling secure, because the other arch was blocked by an oak door with the long wooden barrier in its slot, to lock it from this side.
Elongated windows, high and shuttered, lined the left wall. He pushed one open, hearing the squawk and squalls as Chickens and pigs were unloaded. He could hear horses and Ualtar’s voice shouting direction and orders. In the morning, men would hunt in order to feed themselves and the household.
Ronan turned and went back to the tub, testing the spigot to see if it worked. After sputtering air, it began to gush the rainwater caught and contained, that was its source. It was ancient compared to Dunnewicke and the water not filtered for debris.
He did not intend to call the old fortress home. He had only kept it for the land, the forest, its timbers and nuts, roes and fowl, the beasts that would bring both food and monies. He had sent her here because of the reputation of the ancient castle and its violent history, the indestructible walls—aye, its ghosts. Few would care to either enter its walls, or challenge the inhabitants.
He sat on a rough, wide, stool beside the bed, and began unstrapping his boots, which were crisscrossed with studded ties. Had he kept Beroun with him, instead of leaving him to serve Pagan, he would have hot water and wine already, but he was aware of the luxury of having any water at all in a castle this old.
It would do until word reached the uncle of her marriage, and of her forfeiting her endowment to Guardi. If that was what the Uncle desired, then it would suffice. If the man was like his brother—her dead husband—Ronan doubted it would. She had defied him, frustrated his plans, and escaped his punishments. He was all too personally aware that men did not like to be deprived of exercising their power and cruelty.
While he removed the mail shirt and was down to linen blouse and leather breeches, the lad, whom was called Daykin entered, directing two younger lads with his trunks. After collecting the mesh, the boy laid out another linen shirt, clean leather breeches and without Ronan telling him to, the fingerless gloves and softer mask, his cloak. Ronan surmised that Ualtar had instructed him on his preferences.
The boy laid out comb and linen, brought toweling, soap, and wordlessly laid a fire.
“My thanks,” Ronan called as the lad was leaving.
“‘Tis an honor, sir. I have admired you and your brother from childhood. My father and I witnessed two of your tourneys.”
“Your fathe
r, does he live?”
“No milord.” The boy looked away. “He was killed in a brawl when one of the armies passed through. He owned the Tavern and attempted to break up a scuffle.”
“Your mother?”
The boy shrugged.
Ronan left it at that. “When the kitchens are in order, bring me wine and some sustenance.”
“Yes, milord.”
The other lads had left and were apparently bringing up the possessions and trunks belonging to Sefare. The main solar bedchamber also opened into the hallway. Lads passed by, lugging all that those knights of Sefare’s had kept protected for her.
Daykin finally was able to leave.
Ronan turned and reached for the spigot. Shutting off the tap, through a trickle persisted. He stripped down until every inch of his large hewn frame was exposed. Nevertheless, he did not look at it as he got in the tub. Unbinding his long hair first, he still made sure he was turned from light and any doors as he removed his mask.
He soaped and washed the thick mane first, then roughly scrubbed his body. Washing his face, his fingers went from his brow and down the scars over the side. For a moment, his hands went down, lax in the water, and he stared at the murky soap lined surface, glad there was nothing reflecting back at him.
Thumps and thuds could be heard in the bedchamber across. The trickle from the spout and muffled noise from outside, persisted. Though even the rough interior of the old castle was softened by candles he had lit, his battle hardened body scarcely registered the coldness of the water he sat in.
Ronan seldom thought of it as, body, muscle and bone, instead it was part of the weapon and armor of Ronan. He could not afford to think of it in that manner.
The firmly ridged muscles in his stomach and abdomen tightened. His built narrower there, before the wide span of chest and back muscle. Ronan lifted only his fingers from the milky water—eyeing the dark hue, calluses mingled with the scars that many knights had, and those from the events surrounding his family’s death, his and Pagan’s capture, torture, and years in the tower.
Next, he had a mental picture of the woman he had privately watched arrive at Dunnewicke, and eyed up close only when confronted with her before and during the wedding vows. She had been gowned in long sleeved purple velvet, with silver encrusted neckline, and silver in the low belt on her hips. That day her hair was half-piled white blond curls, caught in a crownlet of silver and azure gems, that matched her eyes. He had registered her small stature and milk white skin, the light hue of her eyes, whilst noting that hair flowed to her trim waist in a fall of curls.
In the light, even next to a honey tone of Illara, who was gold and red hues of sun, Sefare had been silvery and white—bright as a star in the heavens. Her slim nose, pale pink lips and overall loveliness had evoked such a feeling of longing in Ronan that his guts twisted. It reminded him of what he was so swiftly, that he had growled at her, hated her, for a moment, because she personified all he could not have.
Her flinching from him was a reminder, if nothing else had been.
A knock on the chamber door jerked Ronan out of his thoughts, but not his dark mood. Thinking it Daykin with his wine, he barked, “Enter.”
“This was placed by the door, and as I had need to speak wi—“
The moment he heard Sefare’s voice, Ronan had turned his head and covered his face with his hands, his long mane sliding forward. Behind that, he bellowed loud enough to shake the windows, “Get out! Get out!”
There was a rattle and then a thunk, a scurrying sound, before the door slammed closed. Enraged, Ronan rose from the water, stepping out and jerking up the toweling. While he wrapped it around his hips, the door flung wide again and a wide-eyed Daykin skidded through it.
“My Lord—?”
Turning his head away, still enraged. Ronan snarled, “You are to stand watch at that door whenever I bathe or sleep! Never, let anyone pass inside, nor pass yourself, unless I summon you by name. Is that clear!”
At the end of that roar, Daykin choked, “Aye, My Lord. Clear. I pledge, milord.”
Growling curses, vibrating with fury, Ronan hissed, “Then be about it!”
The door slammed again.
Swiftly Ronan began to dress, yanking on the shirt, pulling the ties. His breeches were next, doing the leather laces, tucking the linen shirt in, and then sitting to don his boots. Fingers actually trembling, his breath pushing out as if he’d ran miles, Ronan got them on, cross tied, and stood to don his fingerless gloves.
Still cursing, still rattling the room and rumbling with the foulest words he could summon, he jerked the comb through his wet mane, secured it at the base of his head, twisted the length rope like, and tied it off.
He donned the softer mask, a supple leather one that covered him from forehead to jaw, the space cut out U shape for his mouth and having strips to bridge across his nose. Yanking the buckles tight at the back of his head, he then pulled on the light gray cloak, his arms through the sleeves, and the cowl drawn up. Ronan strode across the distance, threw the bar from the door so hard it cracked against the stone wall—and hit the oak surface with his palm, causing the door to open so swiftly, the echo of it meeting the wall ricochet through the castle.
At first he did not see her, in order to aim his rage in the direction he intended to. His gaze took in the massive curtained bed near the fireplace, a series of arched windows with green glass round the room, seats beneath them. There were screens here and there, chair, bench, small table, and a fire was laid. It lit on three long rolled up Turkish carpets and several bales of fur, piles of cloth bolts, and items he could not begin to discern. The trunks were scattered about, lids back, two of which seemed to overflow with jewels, pearls, silver and gold cups, plates and chains, all manner of sparkling riches.
“Speak!” He barked, his eyes at last narrowing on a figure seated on the window seat amid another pile. Her back was to him and he could see her knees bent, feet under her gown, and her arms around herself.
“I had need to ask, My Lord—Sir…ah…”
“Ronan,” he growled, making out her shorn hair, that her head was slightly bowed.
“Ronan, I meant to enquire, if you were… keeping me?”
Keeping her?
For a moment, the meaning of that escaped him, and it stole his anger enough time for her to add, “As wife, that is.”
Ronan’s hands curled into fists at his sides while his gaze bore into that mop of curls.
“— and if we shall dwell here, long?”
Grunting on a half growl, he uttered, “This is no home to grow comfortable in, My Lady. ‘Tis a defense against any attack and a determent should your dead husband’s family not be satisfied that you are no longer their concern. We will reside here, until my messenger brings word that your late husband’s uncle is satisfied.”
“Then, where will we live?”
”I know not,” he snarled. “But wherever it be, let me make one thing plain. You will not come near me unless summoned!”
Her back stiffened. He watched her head rise as if she now stared across the room. Even though his words seemed harsh, even to himself in the silence that hung next, he saw her arms unfold and witnessed her rising, before she walked slowly toward the far window. Her small frame was now silhouetted from the lowering of the sun. Hands at her sides, fists curled, much like his own were, it still cast its rays over her white blond head and seemed to mock him from afar, particularly when she braced herself and lifted her chin.
Her voice was not trembling, but simply the soft tones of before as she offered, “I shall run the household as is my duty for the duration then. I should not wish you to think me unmindful of what your selfless kindness has brought upon you. I understand from your Page, that there was victory at Dunnewicke, and when you could have lived in peace—”
“There is never peace,” he grit.
“Aye, not for most, there is not.” Her shoulder moved as if she shrugged, and went on, “I sha
ll be the least burden to you as I am able. Moreover, I beg your pardon for my thoughtless intrusion before. It was not insensitivity, but rather that having waited, I was not certain if the promise I made you in the chapel—that you may send me from you, was your desire, or that my bargain, should you stay wed, that I would full fill duties…”
When those words trailed off, his nostrils flared. Ronan was too angry still to wonder if it was because of his appearance, or what the knights’ had told him of her husband, that made the word duty appear to mean, within limits—in her speech.
He retorted, “The people I have engaged for the time being will need direction. My men will hunt, guard, and scout, and be on alert for both of our enemies. But other than staying out of my way, and using common sense not to put yourself in danger, I expect no duty from you.”
She turned, slow enough for him to have left the room should he desire. However, since he was cloaked and masked, he simply stood as he was and watched until she faced him across the distance.
It was no less difficult to eye her womanly figure in the form-fitting gown, petite as it was, and no less hard to ignore her light eyes finding his in the mask. Nor, to note the symmetry of her face, those pink lips that looked dewy from her having laved them.
She asked unexpectedly “Did Illara really don armor and ride in the melee?”
“Aye.”
Her smile transformed her face in painfully beautiful ways. She murmured, “We used to dream of that, when Lord John was alive. I think he would be proud… of her, at least.”
Her smile faded, and as it did, it gave Ronan insight that from the time he had met her, she was masked with her own protective façade. No doubt, to endure her life before.
Before he could soften however, he merely added, “She is with child.”
White teeth sank into those pink lips, and the merest hint of tears shone in her eyes before she looked away a moment. “I’m glad she’s to be blessed. I am happy for her, beyond words.”
Silence stretched until she turned to look again at him. And, had cleared her expression. “There are spices and such I brought with me, which will enhance the meals here. Am I to expect you to dine with me at the Lord’s Table, or would you prefer—”
