by Karin Tabke
“Milord,” she whispered against his lips, “you make me forget my horse.”
“You make me forget more than that,” he said softly, releasing her.
She turned her attention back to Silversmith, and said, “I would have Ednoth come to Draceadon. He is key to my success here.”
“He is bastard half brother to your husband. Do you think you can find his support?”
She nodded, and began to braid the mane draping over the wound. “He has nothing. I would raise him up by giving him a position.”
“There will be time for that later, Tarian, when things are settled.”
She shot him a glare, her mood changing from soft and contemplative to angry. “You mean once I am either dead or permitted to remain alive?”
His dark face clouded and he stepped away from her. “Do not make this more difficult than it has to be.”
She stepped down from the stool and came around to fully face him. “Difficult? We are speaking of my life! How much more difficult can it be?”
He stood silent and scowled down at her. She could almost see his mind at work. “Mayhap, milady, you should consider a trip to Normandy.”
“Nay! I will never leave here!”
“You would be alive.”
“I would rather die than spend my life a prisoner of William.”
“There may be no other way, Tarian. Think on it.” He turned and walked away, leaving her with much to contemplate.
She would not go as hostage to William. Once in his lair she would be nothing more than a prisoner; or as she had heard, she would not even be afforded the luxury of court but locked away and forgotten. The dungeons in Rouen were filled with rebel Saxons. Nay, she would fight for her right to live here in her homeland, and would rather die for the effort. That settled, she retuned to the chore of tending her horse, and once done, she led him to his stall and fed him.
As Tarian wrestled her mail into an orderly package that she could carry back to her chamber, Gareth approached. He took it from her, and she gladly handed it over.
“Where is your helm?”
“In the dirt at Dunloc, along with a gauntlet,” she admitted, disgust lacing her words. He scowled, and she was grateful he did not query her further on the subject. Instead, as they walked back to the fortress, Tarian softly said, “He speaks of taking me to Normandy.”
“’Tis what the Viking suggested to me as well.”
Keeping her calm, Tarian evenly said, “I will fight him, Gareth. I will not go.”
“Aye, to go would mean certain captivity or death.”
“There has been no word of his man Warner returning from Normandy. My guess is the tides were not in his favor but ours.”
Gareth smiled grimly. “A small blessing. Our men continue to wait for his return.”
Tarian was comforted by that. Time was her ally; or it could prove to be the angel of certain death. Each morning when she awoke she lay quiet in her bed and listened to her body for any of the telltale signs of pregnancy. Edie laughed at her, telling her that more time was required for the signs. But emotionally she was near the end of her rope. Desperately she wished for a child. Another thought struck her. What if she were with child and the king demanded the babe as hostage? Despite the warmth of the fading day, the thought of giving up her babe chilled Tarian to the bone. Never!
When they entered the hall they found it alive with music, men, and flowing wine and ale. She had to smile when several of the villagers stopped and gawked at her attire. She was dressed as a knight. Chauses, undertunic, and quilted gambeson.
When her eyes clashed with the Normans gathered round a table playing what looked to be dice, they laughed uproariously. Her temper caught.
“En garde, men!” Thorin chortled. “England’s most fearsome knight approaches!”
Not only did the Normans laugh in uproarious humor, but several Saxons joined in as well. She noticed that while Wulfson, who stood by the hearth, did not laugh, he seemed to be forcing back a smile. Her eyes narrowed to slits.
Stiffening, Tarian refused to be dragged into their rude humor and be the butt of their jokes. Gareth made to move toward them, but Tarian stayed him. “Do not engage with them, Gareth, you will only feed them.”
Without further comment she made it to her chamber, where she nearly collapsed on the bed.
“Tarian?” Brighid said, flying to her side. “Are you injured?”
“Nay, just fatigued,” she said, yawning. “Let me rest for a candle notch and I will join you and the buffoons from Normandy after I bathe.”
Brighid unlaced her chauses and removed them. “Tarian, do you think it wise to ride ahorse as you do?”
Tarian opened one eye. “Why would I not?”
“What if you are with child?”
“What if I am?”
“Harm could come to you or the babe.”
Tarian closed her eyes and relaxed back into the soft linens. “Edith says ’tis not until the second half of a pregnancy that a woman should retire. I am healthy, and the babe would be protected.”
“I would stay with you, Tarian.”
“I would welcome that,” she said, forcing back a yawn. “Now, allow me to sleep.”
The last thing she remembered was Brighid tugging off her gambeson, before dreams swept her away. She dreamt of a golden lion, stalking an equally golden dragon, and of a great black wolf watching from the forest. The dragon’s fire scorched the lion, but eventually the lion outmaneuvered the dragon and dug his deep claws into the dragon’s back.
As the wolf entered the fray to save the dragon, at the last minute the wolf turned on the dragon, and together the lion and the wolf tore it apart, tossing its limbs to the four corners of the island—message to all that even the golden dragon could not overcome the might of the lion and the wolf combined.
Tarian woke with a start. The room was dim, only a lone candle across the room offered light. “Your bath is ready, milady,” Edie said from her chair in the corner. Tarian stretched and nodded.
“The day’s grime clings to me.” But she made no effort to move from the bed. Edith came to her and helped her from her clothes, and when Tarian sank into the warm soapy water she sighed and relaxed.
“Do you wish to eat here or go below? I am afraid the Normans have turned the hall into a den of debauchery and celebration.”
Tarian sat up in the tub. “Oh?”
Edith pinned up the mass of Tarian’s hair, and nodded. “Your men did not take kindly to the insult of the Viking Norman. There was a challenge of dice and then arm wrestling.”
“And?”
Edith smiled. “Gareth lightened their purses considerably, but the Normans took it back after the arm wrestling.”
Tarian scowled.
“Gareth was no match for your Wulfson.”
“Bite your tongue. He is not mine! He would pair up with his king and slay me in a heartbeat.”
“Mayhap.”
Tarian soaked in the tub, contemplating her position. If she stayed in her chamber it would look as if she hid from the Normans. If she descended into the hall she would no doubt be the butt of more ribbing. She shrugged it off. She had weathered far worse.
“And what did Alewith and Brighid do during the contests?”
“It appears the knight Rhys has an eye for your foster sister, and her father thinks to encourage it.”
“Does he now?”
“Methinks he sees the gain in a Norman son-in-law.”
Tarian sat up in the tub. “What of her betrothal to David?”
Edith shook her head. “The boy has flown with his parents to Scotland.”
“He breaks the contract? When did this happen? Why did I not know?”
“They received word the day they traveled here. Methinks Brighid is not overly upset.”
“But she is innocent; the knight will take advantage of her. Then she will have no chance of a suitable marriage. Dress me, Edie, so that I may go intercede on her beha
lf.”
Tarian quietly descended into a wild frenzy of music, laughter, and, some would say, debauchery. The Normans as well as her own men made merry with the ladies of the manor. Amidst it all, Alewith sat across from Wulfson, engrossed in a game of chess. Trays of food littered the tables and several hounds helped themselves. Her eyes traveled the perimeter of the long hall for her sister and caught a glimpse of her blue kirtle as she slipped through the great doors. Tarian hurried to follow, but was stopped by Thorin. “Let them be. Rhys is an honorable young man.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Your version of honor, sir knight, and mine have different meaning.” She moved past him and he did not try to stop her. As she broke free from the hall, Tarian looked wildly about the bailey, and to her concern did not see her sister or the knight in the dusky light.
“Brighid?” she called and continued into the bailey. The night had approached and the usual hustle and bustle of the bailey was eerily quiet. Panic rose. What if he had his way with her? She would be ruined for a noble husband.
She hurried to the stable, hoping to find them there. As she came to a breathless stop at the open entrance, she heard the undeniable giggle of a maid, followed by a deep, manly voice. Silently Tarian stepped deeper into the shadowy structure. Two silhouettes at the far end stood outside of Silversmith’s stall. The stallion neighed, and Tarian held her breath when Brighid scratched the gray’s forehead.
“Tarian raised him from a colt.”
“He has much to learn,” Rhys said, and extended his hand to give the horse a scratch. Silversmith nipped at him. Brighid laughed.
“He does not like men overmuch.”
Tarian watched the knight slip his hands around Brighid’s waist and pull her away from the gray, only to press her against the near wall. “What of you, sweet Brighid? Do you also find men distasteful?”
Tarian strode toward them, making no effort to conceal herself.
“Some men I prefer more than others.”
His head dropped to hers, and Tarian was certain he said, “Do you prefer me?”
“She does not!” Tarian said, coming upon them. Brighid gasped, but the Norman stood his ground, his hands resting too familiarly around the slender waist of her sister. “Unhand her.”
Fifteen
Rhys nodded and stood back. Tarian knew it was not from any fear of her, but that the knight did not want to appear a complete knave in front of Brighid, whose face had turned the color of an autumn apple.
“T-Tarian,” the girl stuttered, stepping away from the Norman. “We but came to see how your horse fared.”
Tarian stood with her hands on her hips and glowered at them both. Rhys, though the youngest of the knights, was still years older than Brighid, and, she knew, well experienced. “He fares just fine. Does Lord Alewith know what you are about?”
Rhys laughed low and asked, “What are we about, Lady Tarian?”
Tarian quirked a brow. “’Tis obvious by your sweet words and actions toward my sister. She is not some wench you can weaken with your poetic words. She is innocent and will remain that way for her husband.”
Rhys nodded again and stepped further from the girl. Brighid looked to him, then back to Tarian, this time with a set jaw. “I am no longer betrothed to that coward David. And, sweet sister, should I not remind you I am nearly sixteen? Why, I am practically an old maid!”
Tarian understood the girl’s dreams of romance and took her hand and pulled her to her. “And a virgin. Do not forget it. It takes just one time, Brighid, and you could find yourself spilling a bastard’s bastard. Our lot is hard enough; do not add more of us to England when you can prevent it.”
She dragged her sister behind her, and as they were coming out of the stable Alewith and Wulfson nearly collided with them. Alewith took one kook at Brighid, then Tarian, and looked beyond to Rhys, who walked toward them with the cocksureness of a man who had just brought down an eight-point buck with a single arrow to the heart.
Alewith scowled. “What happened here?”
“Nothing, Papa! I swear it!” Brighid cried, throwing herself into her father’s arms. “’Twas I who suggested we come to the stables.”
Wulfson looked angrily past them to his man who strode into the torchlight just outside the structure. “’Twas I who made the suggestion,” Rhys said gallantly. Tarian’s eyes narrowed more. Why did he lie? But the answer was simple: he would not have Brighid look the coquette before her father. Their eyes met, and she nodded. In that moment he all but redeemed himself. But not enough.
“My orders were clear, Sir Rhys.”
Rhys clicked his heels together and gave Wulfson a short bow. “My pardon.” Then he strode past them all back to the hall.
Alewith looked pointedly at Tarian. “Your word that you did not witness any trespass on her.”
Tarian nodded. “My oath. They were merely having a conversation outside Silversmith’s stall. Nothing more.”
Relief flooded Brighid’s face, and she smiled. “See, Papa?”
He cast Wulfson a glance. “On the morrow after the evening meal, I will see you back at the chess table. Be prepared this time to lose your horse!”
Alewith whisked his daughter away, leaving Wulfson and Tarian quite alone.
“Are you not terrified?” Tarian sarcastically asked.
Wulfson quirked a dark brow. “Of what?”
“Of England’s most fearsome knight!”
He smiled and chuckled good-naturedly. “Thorin only sported with you. He has quite a wit inside that one-eyed head of his.”
“And you, sir, are a knave for allowing it.”
He smiled again. “Come now, you have been the brunt of worse.”
“That does not mean I like it.” She grabbed one of the torches and walked back into the darkened stable. Wulfson followed.
“I will caution my men, then, to keep their humor to themselves if it upsets you.”
She stopped and whirled around, nearly slamming the torch in his chest. He stepped back. “I appreciate your offer, but will pass. Should you ask that of your men it will make us both look weak. Is that what you wish?”
He stood for a moment and contemplated her response, then finally nodded. “You are wise for one so young, Tarian.”
“’Tis how I have survived.” She turned and made her way to the far end of the stable to her horse. She set the torch down in an outside ground sconce, then entered the stall, speaking softly to him. The light was dim, but she did not want to take a chance by bringing the torch close to a wounded animal. One false move and the stable would go up in flames.
Instead, she squinted, and with what light she had, she poked and prodded, glad to feel there was no heat coming from the site. She would clean it again in the morn and dress it with fresh balm. She turned to Wulfson and asked, “How fare your wounds?”
“The one on my thigh pains me greatly.”
Her concern piqued, she said, “I noted your gait was slower. Is there much heat in it?”
He nodded.
Tarian sighed and moved from the stall, confident her horse was on the mend. She grabbed the torch from the sconce and beckoned the knight to follow her.
As they entered the hall, while there were still people about, the noise had subsided. She approached Stefan, who sat with his man Ioan over the chessboard. He glanced up to her and stood, as did the other men who noticed her presence. She nodded and said, “Would you send Rolf for the balm you use on your horses? The one used for open wounds.”
Stefan looked from her to Wulfson, who stood silent but with a noticeable gleam in his eye. Stefan slowly smiled and nodded. “Of course, madame. Where should he bring it?”
“To my chamber.” She walked past him and was halfway up the stairwell when she turned to find Wulfson standing with his men, all of them smiling, including Rhys, who sported a more twisted smile. She did not need a herald to explain to her what they all thought would happen in her chamber. And she was just as sure it would not. Her
dream from her nap still weighed heavy on her mind, and each time she thought back to it, a coldness encompassed her. It settled in her that there was a very good chance that not only could her days at Draceadon be numbered but her time on earth as well.
“No need to fear for your knight. I give you my oath as England’s most fearsome knight, I will not harm him this night.” She turned and strode up to her chamber, only to find it atwitter with Brighid, Edith, and Noelth, her sister’s maid.
“Tarian!” Brighid cried, flinging herself into her arms. “Forgive me!”
Tarian soothed the girl and walked with her into the room. “There is nothing to forgive, Brighid. I understand all too well the lure of the Normans. Do not think for one moment I have not felt the pull myself. But we must resist! They have come to slay me!”
“Sir Rhys would never do such a thing!” the girl defended.
“Aye, he would, and do not forget, their loyalty is not to England, but their king.”
She extracted the girl from her arms and moved past her for the tray of linens and needle and thread. Brighid coughed back a sob, and turned to her maid for comfort. Tarian set her jaw and turned, tray in hand, to see the hulking Norman filling the doorway. She beckoned him in.
He shook his head. “I think not.”
Exasperated, she said, “’Tis not as if they have never seen a man in braies. Come in and strip so that I can see the wound.”
“Nay.”
She remained as steadfast. She turned and set the tray down on a nearby table and faced him. “Then suffer with it.”
He bowed slightly and stepped from the threshold, moving down the hall to his chamber.
“Stubborn man!” But she would not follow him. Nay, she would not be alone with him. She had given too much of herself already, she would give him no more.
Edith picked up the tray and said, “I will tend to him. Where is his wound?”
“On the outside of his right thigh. I stitched him several days ago. I would have thought it would be neatly knitting by now, but he says it causes him great discomfort. I fear infection.”
As Edith left the room, Rolf appeared with a jar of balm. “Take it then to your master’s chamber; he awaits it,” Tarian said.
