A Warrior's Kiss

by Margaret Moore

  And, he told himself, that was good.

  The priest began to intone the Latin words and Trystan forced himself to concentrate on the mass. When it finally concluded, Trystan waited for his father and mother to leave before he moved, then he lingered near the door until Lady Rosamunde and her father drew near.

  “How pleased I am to see you better this morning, Sir Edward.” He bowed a greeting. “May I walk with you to the hall?”

  “Certainly,” Sir Edward replied as he started in that direction.

  Trystan walked beside Lady Rosamunde. “May I speak with you alone after we break the fast, my lady?” he asked softly and, he thought, so that only she could hear.

  “Anything you wish to say to my daughter you may say in my hearing,” Sir Edward rumbled as he turned and glared at Trystan over his shoulder.

  Trystan put a genial smile on his face as he quickened his pace to match that of the Norman. “Of course, Sir Edward. My father’s solar will be free before the noon. Shall we meet there?”

  “Very well.”

  As they continued toward the hall, Trystan spotted Dylan already in the courtyard, mounted on his prancing stallion and bidding the baron and his wife good-bye. Arthur sat on a smaller horse beside him, while nearby Dylan’s guard prepared to depart.

  A smile flitted across Trystan’s face. If Arthur had not been sitting, he probably would have prancing with impatience, too.

  “Farewell, cousin!” Dylan called when he saw Trystan and his companions. He bowed from his waist. “And a good day to you, my lord and my lady. Until we meet again.”

  “Farewell!” Trystan replied.

  Dylan turned his mount and his party rode out the gate while his parents watched.

  “Who is the boy?” Sir Edward asked.

  “My cousin’s son,” Trystan answered.

  “His bastard son,” Lady Rosamunde amended, and Trystan heard the sneer in her voice.

  As he glanced at her, he reminded himself that he couldn’t expect anyone raised in a Norman household to react in any other way.

  “I see,” Sir Edward remarked.

  “He is the younger one. There are two,” his daughter added.

  “Unlike the Normans, we have never given so much heed to the legalities of a child’s birth,” Trystan explained calmly.

  “But you must abide by Norman law now,” Sir Edward said.

  “We do, in our own way.”

  “Then is it indeed as I have heard, Sir Trystan?” Sir Edward demanded. “He will inherit, too, although he be a bastard?”

  “As long as my cousin pays for that right, which we call cynnwys—inclusion. After it is paid, Arthur will inherit a portion of my cousin’s estate. His elder brother will inherit the title. That is the way in Wales.”

  “Your cousin is a bastard, too, is he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who paid for him to inherit?”

  “My father.”

  “That’s what I call a generous uncle, I must say,” the Norman said in a tone that was both jovial and unnecessarily patronizing, considering that he had also shared the baron’s largesse. “A pity for you though, isn’t it?”

  “Why should it be a pity if my father is generous and does what he believes to be right?” Trystan inquired as they reached the door to the hall.

  “Why, otherwise your father would have more to give his own sons.”

  Trystan paused as he reached for the latch, then slowly turned to look at Sir Edward. “If that were not the way in Wales, there is some doubt whether my father would have anything to give his sons at all. He is a bastard himself.”

  Sir Edward crimsoned. “I had forgotten.”

  As he caught Lady Rosamunde’s embarrassed expression, Trystan wished he had kept silent and not let the Norman’s condescending tone offend him.

  “Of course, my brother and sister and I are all perfectly legitimate,” he remarked evenly as he held open the heavy door for them to pass.

  As he did so, Lady Rosamunde’s delicate, flower-scented perfume encircled him, and she gave him a little smile.

  For once, it failed to move him. Nevertheless, today he would ask her to be his wife.

  “Are you nearly finished, Da?” Trystan asked in what he hoped was a casual tone as he stood on the threshold of the solar later that morning.

  The solar was in the newest tower of his father’s castle. The room was smaller than some, larger than others, yet very comfortable for all that. His mother had seen to that, ensuring that it was warmed by two braziers so that his father’s leg wouldn’t ache with the chill. Cloth shutters on the windows kept out cool breezes. Simple, yet thick, tapestries lined the walls. The baron’s chair sported plush cushions, something he would never permit on his chair in the hall, in case other men think he needed coddling in his old age.

  His father looked up from the parchment he was perusing that lay spread open on his large table. “I can be,” he replied, beginning to roll the parchment up. “Do you want to talk to me about something? A young lady, perhaps?”

  “Mother told you what I plan to do, then?”

  His father’s eyepatch rose with his quizzical eyebrow, revealing more of the mottled scar beneath. “Plan to do? You still have not done it?”

  “They are coming here soon.”

  “They?”

  “Sir Edward and Lady Rosamunde.”

  His father grinned. “Planning to marry the old man, too, are you?”

  Trystan frowned. “Of course not, but he must agree, so…”

  “So you can kill two birds with one rock, eh? Would you like me to stay, too, to tell them what I think?”

  Although his father’s tone was not exactly serious, Trystan’s brow furrowed nonetheless. “You won’t object, will you?”

  Now the grave expression of which his father was capable came to the older man’s face. “If you truly want to marry this woman, no, I shall not object.”

  “Nevertheless, I would prefer you were not here.”

  “If that is what you wish.”

  “It is.” Trystan felt relieved enough to smile. “I would prefer if her father were not here, either, but I have no choice.”

  “I could waylay him, if you like. I’m sure he could be persuaded to come with me if I offer to take him to Mair’s brewery to sample more of her ale.”

  Did Mair, or her name, or her ale, have to intrude everywhere? “I would be most grateful.”

  “Very well. You wait here, and I shall do my best.” His father rose and made his way to the door of the solar.

  Then he hesitated and slowly turned around, a look on his face such as Trystan had never seen. “Your mother doesn’t want me to say anything more, my son, yet I cannot keep silent.”

  He took a step closer, his one-eyed gaze studiously intense. “Do you truly love this woman? Do you honestly believe she loves you?”

  Under his father’s scrutiny, Trystan found himself swallowing hard. “I…I want to marry her, Father.”

  “That is not what I asked you.”

  “Can any man be sure if what he feels is love?”

  “Oh, yes,” his father replied with one brief, abrupt nod. “You’ll know.”

  “Even if I am certain of my feelings, how can a man know what a woman feels in her heart?”

  His father’s smile grew rueful. “That is the great question, my son. What do you think this woman feels in her heart, about you or anything else?”

  “How can I know? I am no seer.”

  “Has she said nothing of her feelings toward you?”

  “She has made it her business to find out all she can about me, and our family.”

  “So would a merchant who thought to trade with us.”

  Trystan’s hands balled into fists. “Did you ask Griffydd these questions? Or Dylan?”

  “They were—”

  “What? Different? Older? Better?”

  “Trystan!” The baron strode closer and regarded his son soberly. “I do not think a
ny man better than you.”

  “Really? Then why question my choice of bride? You did not interrogate them!”

  “Griffydd was not at home when he fell in love, and Dylan…” The baron shrugged. “Dylan is Dylan.”

  “And I am Trystan, who wishes to marry Lady Rosamunde D’Heureux.”

  His father’s expression softened. “Yes, you are Trystan, my beloved son, and I want nothing more than for my beloved son to be happy and content. That is why I ask these questions. Do you truly believe this woman will make you happy and content?”

  “Yes!”

  His father nodded. “Then so be it. Ask her your question, and if she accepts you, your mother and I shall dance at your wedding.”

  With that, he slowly limped from the room.

  For the first time, it occurred to Trystan that his father was getting to be an old man. That was something easy to forget, for his father was as tall and straight as he had always been, his mind as keen, his eye as sharp, his laugh as boisterous. Indeed, even now, Trystan knew that if it came to a fight, his father would beat him not with strength and skill alone, but with a cunning years of fighting in the East had engendered.

  Yet there was no denying that his father was no longer young, and so perhaps his attitudes were hardening with age.

  Trystan took a deep breath and walked toward the window that overlooked the courtyard.

  At least his father would make no trouble over his marriage, or his mother, if Lady Rosamunde accepted him. His brother and cousin would likewise have to accept his choice.

  Suddenly, he saw his father come striding out the hall, Sir Edward in tow like a dog on a lead. A happy dog, Trystan thought, a smile coming to his lips. Or like a hound on the scent of game.

  What would Sir Edward make of Mair? He had not spoken to Mair in the hall, or even looked her way once, Trystan didn’t think. He had been so interested in the food and ale he had not watched the dancing, or he wouldn’t have been able to miss Mair. She was an excellent, spirited dancer, and nobody enjoyed that activity the way she did.

  A soft tap sounded and Trystan turned to behold Lady Rosamunde on the threshold of the solar. She looked about uncertainly.

  “My father decided to go into the village with the baron,” she said softly, a flush of embarrassment on her cheeks.

  “Given what I have to ask you, I would rather be alone,” he replied gravely. “Please, come inside and sit.”

  She glanced around the room as if still unsure.

  “Leaving the door open, of course.”

  That seemed to reassure her and she glided gracefully inside.

  “Please, my lady,” he said, pulling a chair close to her.

  Her gaze on the floor, she nodded and sat.

  He had intended to begin with words of endearment and then, when he saw signs of encouragement, ask for her hand, but her attitude was rather disconcerting. She did not look at him even when he began to speak.

  “My lady, although I am not worthy…” He cleared his throat. “My lady, I want you to know…”

  Still she didn’t look at him.

  “My lady, do you like me?” he asked at last, his tone almost desperate.

  He immediately cursed himself for a bumbling fool, until Lady Rosamunde raised her smiling face. “Your question is rather impertinent, Sir Trystan, is it not?”

  “I would not ask it if it were not very important.”

  He held his breath as the rosy hue of a blush spread upon her cheeks.

  “Yes, I like you very much,” she whispered.

  He went down on his knee before her and gazed into her beautiful face and tranquil blue eyes. Taking a deep breath and suddenly feeling as if he were stepping off a precipice, he said, “My lady, I beg the honor of your hand in marriage.”

  She smiled with pleasure—and a hint of what might have been triumph deep in her eyes. “I would be honored to accept your hand, Sir Trystan, if my father gives his permission.”

  Trystan told himself the sick sensation he felt in the pit of his stomach was relief as he took her hands in his.

  With sudden resolve, he swiftly rose, pulled her to her feet and gave her a hearty kiss.

  “Sir Trystan!” she protested, pushing him away with more energy than she had ever demonstrated before. “What are you doing?”

  “I am kissing my bride.”

  She adjusted her slightly askew cap and scarf. “We are not married yet!”

  “No, not yet,” he agreed. Then he smiled appealingly. “But surely I cannot be faulted for wanting to kiss my wife-to-be.”

  Her expression softened and he felt the tension begin to ebb from his shoulders. “No, I suppose not. You simply startled me.”

  He moved closer and spoke in a low whisper. “If I were to kiss you now, you would not be startled, would you?”

  “No.” She tilted her face up toward him, her eyes closed and her lips in an expectant pout.

  She reminded him of a fish. A cold, dead fish. Nevertheless, he put his arms about her stiff body and kissed her again.

  Her mouth was obviously and firmly shut tight, and he did not even try to touch her lips with his tongue. He half believed she would squeal with horror if he did.

  Once they were husband and wife, he assured himself, she would welcome his embrace.

  “I shall speak to your father as soon as he returns. Do you think he will raise any objections?”

  She moved away, walking toward the window. “He may.” She turned around, facing him with an anxious look in her eyes and her hands clasped before her. “I will do everything I can to convince him of your worth.”

  “I would not have you in the middle,” Trystan said truthfully. “I will convince him myself, if I must.”

  Lady Rosamunde sighed and her shoulders grew less tense. “I am sure you will, Trystan.” She suddenly looked distressed. “You do not mind if I do not use your title?”

  He shook his head, smiling gently. “No, I do not mind. Indeed, I am delighted to hear you say my name in any way at all. Will you ride with me this afternoon?”

  “I shall be happy to,” she said softly. Then she approached him and reached up to brush a kiss upon his cheek before leaving the solar. “My Trystan.”

  Standing in the storehouse of her brewery, Mair frowned as she sniffed her latest batch of short ale. It didn’t smell right, yet she couldn’t figure out what was wrong.

  She rubbed her forehead in dismay. Usually she could tell quite quickly if she had made an error, and exactly what was wrong, whether it was with the mash or the wort or the timing. Today, her mind was as cloudy as if she had finished off all the ale, not merely made it.

  “Greetings, Mair!” a voice declared in Welsh from the open doorway.

  She gasped and spun around, then relaxed when she saw that it was the one-eyed baron standing on the threshold, not his youngest son.

  Smiling, she likewise replied in Welsh. “And greetings to you, Baron.” Then she wagged her finger at him warningly. “But there will be no sampling today!”

  “Not even a little?” he asked mournfully as he stepped inside the thick-walled, cool building. Sawdust covered the floor of packed earth, and rows of various barrels lined the walls. The scent of the fresh wood of new barrels joined with that of sawdust, ale and spicy mead.

  “No, you may not taste even a little bit. Indeed, I would be ashamed to—”

  She fell silent as Sir Edward D’Heureux appeared and entered after the baron. Out of breath, he panted heavily, although it was not so very far a walk from the castle.

  “Oh, you have brought company,” she noted.

  “Indeed I have,” the baron continued, still in Welsh, “for my gluttonous guest is quite fond of your ale.” Then he winked. “I thought he might also enjoy some of your delicious braggot.”

  Mair frowned. “That’s a heady brew for somebody not used to it.”

  “I think this fellow’s had enough ale to be able to survive it.”

  “Who is this
comely wench?” the Norman asked as he sauntered inside as if he were the king. He eyed her like livestock in the market, then walked around behind her. “She would be welcome to warm my bed.”

  Mair gave the baron a sour look. “He doesn’t know I understand him, does he?” she muttered in Welsh.

  The baron was trying not to smile. “No. Should we enlighten him, or let him prattle on?”

  Suddenly Sir Edward grabbed her buttock.

  Letting fly a Welsh curse, she spun around and glared at him before addressing the baron in Welsh. “I think you had better take this oaf back to the castle.”

  “God’s teeth, she is a spirited female,” Sir Edward noted, leering at her.

  “Spirited enough to kick you and your ill-mannered derriere all the way back to the castle gate,” she retorted in very passable French.

  The man’s eyes widened, then he frowned as he looked at the baron. “Do you allow your tenants to speak to a guest in such a way? How dare this impertinent creature address me in this fashion?”

  “Impertinent, am I?” Mair said. “I am not the one grabbing somebody’s ffolen. Not that any woman would want to grab your fat—”

  “Alas, Sir Edward,” the baron hastily interrupted, “I fear you have made a serious error. You’ve offended Mair, so likely there will be no more of that fine ale today, or any other day of your visit. It is never wise to insult the craftsman whose work you admire if you want more of it.”

  Sir Edward stared as if he had just been told she was really a woman. “God’s blood, you cannot be in earnest!”

  Seeing his dumbfounded surprise, Mair’s annoyance fled. How could she be angry at such a fool?

  With a companionable glance at the baron, Mair put her head in her hands. “Oh, woe is me! Sir Edward cannot believe it possible that I, a mere Welshwoman, can make such fine ale. Whatever shall I do? I must give up my trade and go weep by the river!”

  With a wary and incredulous expression on his face, Sir Edward sidled cautiously toward the baron.

  “This is a jest, is it not?” he whispered anxiously. “Or is she mad?”

  Mair threw back her head and laughed. “No, Sir Edward, I am not mad. I am quite sane enough to make the best ale in Wales, if I do boast of it myself.”