by Regan Walker
When the gentle music ended, the tables were moved against the walls and more lively music replaced the soft sounds in anticipation of the dancing that would ensue.
Men began to choose partners for the dances. Rory jumped from his seat and headed straight for Guy’s sister, Bea. Guy, likely in an effort to get even, headed for Rory’s sister, the redheaded Alice. When Alex saw Jamie take Lora’s hand, leaving Merewyn alone, he quickly got to his feet and strode in her direction. He was of a mind to see if she danced as well as she was rumored to shoot her arrows.
* * *
Merewyn watched Alex crossing the hall to where she stood, oblivious to the eager looks from the women he passed. Her heart soared to think he would brave the disdain of others to seek her out for his partner. Mayhap he was not so arrogant as she had imagined.
When he bowed before her, offering his hand, she took it.
The shiver that snaked up her arm shocked her. It was the first time he had touched her so, the way a man touched a woman for whom he had affection. He was so much a man now, his strength revealed in his muscled shoulders and arms. She had promised herself she would stay away from him as she did the other knights and here she was partnering with him in a dance.
He led her to the large area where couples were forming squares. The group they joined set a fast pace keeping time with the music. Soon, she and Alex were matching the quick steps, laughing and smiling.
She was powerless against the joy she experienced being with him. If she allowed herself, she might imagine they were a couple, for they moved easily together as if it were not the first time they had partnered. She had learned to dance in Wales and savored the exhilaration of abandoning herself to the music.
And now it was Alex who held her hand.
After another dance, the room grew over-warm leaving her cheeks heated and her heart pounding. When the music came to a dramatic end, Alex lifted her high into the air, her hands on his shoulders. Caught up in the moment, she laughed as he set her down. But around them, she glimpsed frowns on the faces of some older women.
Alex must have noticed, for he pulled her toward the door that led to the bailey. “Walk with me, Merewyn.”
Flushed with wine and heated from the dance, escaping the disapproving looks into the cooler air lured her almost as much as the temptation to be alone with him. “Aye, very well.”
He guided her out the door but did not let go of her hand. She should not allow him to touch her in so familiar a manner, but she could not bring herself to take back her hand.
Above her, the moonless sky was filled with a radiant circle of stars, their brightness dazzling. “It matters not how many times I see the stars on a clear night,” she remarked, “I am always in awe.”
He joined her to stare up at the brilliant display of stars. “ ’Twas the same for me when I looked into the night sky over Normandy.”
She had often tried to imagine him in that land, worried her champion might be wounded or worse. As a squire, he had followed the knights to battle and later, as a knight, he confronted the swords of other men. He could have died; many did.
She peered at him out of the corner of her eye, admiring his strong profile set against the light from the windows of the hall. “Did you sleep outdoors in Normandy?”
“Some. The last months were often warm. We had tents, of course. But other times, some of us slept in the hall of one of the nobles in Normandy. William Rufus likes his comforts, even on campaign.”
They walked through the bailey. All was quiet save the guards at the gate tower who spoke a greeting to Alex before returning to gaze outward from the palisade.
Alex rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, sending little ripples of pleasure through her. She forced herself to keep her mind on their conversation. “What is he like, the king?”
“He is still unwed, unusual for a king in his third decade. And he is not much like his father, who, I am told, respected the church. But like his father, he is a worthy knight and can be fierce in battle. He can also be dangerous when confronted.” He laughed. “Like an angry bull.”
She tried to imagine the Conqueror’s son who had become king upon his father’s death, but she could not recall one good thing said about him in Wales.
“When he is not wearing mail,” Alex went on, “he favors luxurious clothing adorned with gold and jewels.”
She glanced at Alex’s dark blue wool tunic, now black in the moonlight, fitted to his lean muscled form. How much more elaborate was the king’s attire? “Is he a difficult king to serve?”
“Not on the battlefield. And he is generous when pleased.”
It seemed he might say more but he hesitated and then was silent. Was he brooding? Often, his dark looks could seem threatening. There was so much she did not know about Alexander the man.
They drew next to the stables and it occurred to her she would like to see his great stallion. “Would you show me your horse, the huge black one you ride?”
“Aye, but you will have to approach him with care since you are new to him.”
Inside the long stable building, a lone candle burned in a copper lantern. At the entrance, a stable boy stirred in his sleep. Alex brought his finger to his lips and beckoned her farther into the stable’s depths.
Horses moved about in their stalls, a few looking over the ropes across the open doors as they passed, greeting them with soft nickers. Near the back of the stable on the right was a large stall. The black stallion raised his head over the rope and, seeing his master, nickered loudly, his ears coming forward.
Alex reached out and stroked the stallion’s neck. “Missed me, did you?” Then, looking at her, he said, “I acquired Azor in Normandy.”
“Will he let me touch his muzzle?” she asked, tentatively reaching out her hand.
“If you speak to him with soft words, aye.”
Merewyn loved horses but she was certain this one tolerated only one master. Gently, she ran her palm over the stallion’s soft muzzle and reaching up, slid her hand down his forehead. “You are a handsome fellow.” Like your master.
The light was dim but there were sparks in the stallion’s eyes as he raised his head. “He is magnificent,” she said. Larger than her Welsh pony, the black horse appeared to her a confident beast. “And I think he knows it,” she said with a small laugh.
Alex turned her to face him and placed his hands on her shoulders. “He does. He’s a proud beast like his master.”
She knew she should move away but his strong hands somehow anchored her feet to the ground. Before she fully understood his intent, he pulled her to him and set his lips upon hers, claiming a kiss she could not deny him. It was her first, long imagined and now realized.
His warm mouth moved over hers, the effect like strong wine, lulling her to ignore the objections her mind was shouting. She brought her hands to his arms feeling the muscles flexing beneath his tunic and hung on as he swept her into a swirling mist of sensations.
Her lips still sought his as he raised his head. “I have been wanting to do that since you first entered the hall tonight.”
“You would claim a woman’s kiss merely because you desire it?” Mayhap it worked with others, but she refused to be one of his conquests. Bringing her hands to his chest, she pushed him away. “You have grown presumptuous.” She knew of his reputation. Few, if any, women ever told him nay. ’Twas said the wenches who had gone to his bed did not leave disappointed. It made her angry to think they had some part of him she never would.
He drew close and whispered, “We were once friends, Merewyn. We could be more.”
She jerked her head back. “Nay, I will not be one of your women.” Angry with herself for so willingly falling into his arms, she stepped away. Even now, his nearness caused her heart to flutter in her chest and her body to want more of his kisses. “Are they all willing?”
“Most are, but I did not invite every woman to walk with me, Merewyn. Only you. ’Tis not all women I want.” He stepp
ed closer. “But I do want you, Merewyn.”
His bold assumption that he might have her if he but wanted her was the final stroke. She turned on her heels and ran out of the stable.
CHAPTER 3
Alex slept well his first night home, glad to be in a bed and not on the ground. He woke with the memory of the kiss he had stolen from Merewyn. A very pleasant memory until he recalled her reaction. He might have acted too soon. Too, he must remember that she was the woman who, as a child, he had protected from the lust of others.
Her words of condemnation still rang in his ears. Was he so arrogant as to think he could have any woman? Possibly so. And Merewyn might fear becoming one of those nameless, faceless wenches and village girls he’d slept with on the way to becoming a knight, or the ladies who now willingly offered him their favors.
But she could never be one of those.
In the years she had been gone, she had grown into an alluring woman, but nothing like the women who typically came to his bed, experienced and willing.
She is an innocent.
He had an overwhelming desire to protect her, even from himself. But, as he determined to do so, the memory of the way she had responded to his kiss, a warm kitten in his arms, still lingered and his body stirred in response. Would she again open to his kiss? And if she did, would he take her as he wanted to or would he refrain with her innocence in mind?
His stomach growled, reminding him of other needs. Rising, he dressed in the shorter tunic he would wear to the sword fighting match.
After a hasty meal of bread and cheese and a few words with his father, he left the manor and strode through the palisade gate, drawn by the noise of people at play. Above him, the sun beamed down from a clear blue sky. The day would be warm.
Stretched out before him, covering the large expanse of green in front of the palisade, was a festival to rival those he had seen in Normandy. It appeared all of Talisand had arrived for the festivities.
To his right, the sword matches were just beginning. The clang of metal meeting metal resounded through the air as knights and men-at-arms tested their skill against each other in a circle set off by brightly colored pennons flapping in the breeze.
Alex looked briefly in that direction, noting Rory’s red head moving about as he squared off against the more senior Jamie. Alex would join them soon, but first he wanted to observe the archery contest. He had heard much about Merewyn’s skills. Now he would see them for himself.
Passing the huge blue and white pavilion raised against the summer sun where ale and honey wine would be served, he strode to where his mother stood at the edge of the crowd gathered to watch the archers, who were just stepping to the line.
“You are not competing?” he inquired.
She shot him a glance before turning back to watch the archers taking their stances. “Rising late, are you?”
“I was talking to Father about the summons I expect he will receive from the king,” he muttered. “You did not answer my question. Will you shoot?”
“Not today. I am more interested in seeing how Merewyn fares. She was my student before she was Rhodri’s. Did you know?”
“Nay, I did not.”
“ ’Twas after you left to squire in Rouen.”
He scanned the line of archers preparing to shoot. Merewyn’s fair hair, golden in the morning sun, was easy to spot where she stood at the line with three male archers. She had never appeared more beautiful even though she was, once again, garbed as the slender Welsh bowman, her hair confined to a single plait.
As one, the archers nocked their arrows, lifted their bows and pulled back the strings. The tension in the crowd was palpable as the archers narrowed their eyes on the target.
“Loose!” shouted an official.
The arrows flew with a great rushing sound. He had heard it often enough on the battlefield to find it familiar.
By the bright fletching of Merewyn’s arrow, Alex saw her arrow had hit the target dead center, as did the arrows of two others, both men.
He waited, knowing they would move the target back another twenty feet.
Father Bernard joined him and his mother. “Good day, my lady,” he said. “ ’Tis good to have you home, Sir Alex.” In his sixth decade, the priest who had taught them all to read, now had a tonsure of white hair. He was one of those priests who had married, but was now a widower, as much loved by the people of Talisand as Maugris.
“ ’Tis good to be back, Father.”
“Have you come to watch the archers?” his mother asked the old priest.
“I have,” he said with a grin. “The skill of the young woman returned from Wales is much spoken of.”
“You will enjoy seeing Merewyn shoot,” said the Lady of Talisand.
“As much as I used to delight in your skill with the bow, my lady?”
Alex was aware of the friendship between the priest who had blessed his parents’ marriage and his mother and had heard them teasing each other before.
“Mayhap more,” his mother said.
As the archers prepared to shoot, Alex, his mother and Father Bernard turned to watch. The arrows were loosed and once the target was examined, only Merewyn and one man’s arrows remained. The target was again moved farther away so that it was now standing amidst the trees.
“ ’Tis a long shot,” he said.
“Merewyn has hit targets farther away than that,” his mother noted in a calm voice.
With a “thwack”, Merewyn’s arrow hit the center of the target. The man’s arrow fell short. The archer offered his hand to her in congratulations as the crowd roared shouts of praise.
“The young woman is, indeed, skilled,” remarked Father Bernard.
Alex nodded in agreement. “I vow she is as good as you, Mother.”
“She is better, Alex. You will see.”
Alex returned his gaze to Merewyn as she handed her bow and arrows to a waiting attendant and swung onto the back of a white pony. She claimed only three arrows from the quiver he held out to her, grasping them in the same hand as her bow. With her free hand, she turned her pony toward the edge of the wide-open area while the servants set up two targets side by side, strips of wood standing like trees.
Knotting the pony’s reins, Merewyn laid them at the base of the horse’s neck. Using only her legs, as he did when commanding his destrier in battle, she trotted the mare forward and then urged the horse into a canter, circling once around the large meadow. With a “Hah!” she and the pony were racing at a full gallop.
A knot formed in Alex’s throat and the crowd held its breath as Merewyn raised her bow, nocked an arrow and, crossing before the targets, let the arrow fly. With a resounding “thump” the arrow hit the first target dead center.
Shouts of loud acclamation rose from the crowd as Merewyn slowed, patted the pony’s neck and began to circle again.
“I have never seen the like,” said Alex.
“Nor I,” said Father Bernard.
“She is not done yet,” said his lady mother, her voice filled with pride.
The crowd quieted as Merewyn again raced the pony in front of the targets, twisting lithely in the saddle to loose one arrow, then another. Two arrows smacked into the two targets in rapid succession.
The crowd erupted in shouts of praise.
Alex shook his head, amazed at the skill of this sprite of a woman who moved like the wind and contorted her body to wield her bow with deadly accuracy from the back of a galloping horse. Observing the way her slim thighs had gripped the pony’s flanks, in his mind he saw those same thighs wrapped around his body. Silently, he cursed himself for having such thoughts, especially in the presence of Talisand’s priest.
“William’s archers do not shoot from horses,” he said to his mother.
She returned him one of her knowing smiles that told him she was about to teach him a lesson. “Your father told me the Conqueror could draw a bow that no one else could wield while spurring his steed onward. The bow Rhodri d
esigned for Merewyn may be smaller, but your father’s archers are still in awe of her.”
Remembering his king’s fondness for young men, Alex said, “ ’Tis best William Rufus not see her in the bowman’s garb.”
Father Bernard stifled a cough.
His mother shot him a puzzling look.
Unwilling to explain in a place where people could overhear, he turned his eyes back to Merewyn. She handed her bow to the waiting attendant and swung down from her saddle to stroke her pony’s neck.
“The mare was a gift from Rhodri,” his mother said. “Merewyn trained her in Wales and gave her the Welsh name Ceinder. The two have a strong attachment to each other, as you can see.” With a wistful sigh, she added, “I am so proud of Merewyn.”
“You have reason to be,” said Father Bernard. “The girl has overcome much to become the young woman she is today.” With those words, he wished them well and strolled away.
Alex considered the words of his mother and those of the good father. No other woman he knew, save his mother, had both ethereal beauty and a warrior’s spirit. Watching his mother walk to join Merewyn where she was accepting the congratulations of the other archers, he considered the two women were much alike. Both were intelligent, strong and well able to defend themselves.
* * *
Merewyn walked beside Lady Serena as they made their way to the tent where ale was being served. Cecily ran up to her. “You were wonderful! I want to be just like you when I grow up!” the small redhead proclaimed breathlessly.
Her curly-haired companions, Tibby and Ancel, caught up with her, nodding their agreement. Ancel was the youngest of the three at only eight summers, but no less enthusiastic.
Cecily gazed up at Lady Serena, the child’s red hair falling about her small shoulders. “Will you teach me, too?” she pleaded.
Lady Serena paused. “Heaven help me if you ever take up the bow, Cecily. Your mother would never forgive me.”
“I did not begin so young,” Merewyn said to the girl. “You have many years to learn.”
