by Betina Krahn
She pulled Lillith and Cedric along with her to find out what held them so enrapt. A few people at the edge of the crowd noticed her and gave place, bowing as they removed themselves from her way. But she was stopped a few feet from him by a number of backs fitted shoulder to shoulder, oblivious to her presence.
“A fine bit of workmanship and a prudent style!” he was saying, holding up a leather slipper from the cobbler Albert’s stall. “I tell you . . . in Venice they now wear shoes so long and pointed you could pick your teeth with them.” There was a murmur and a number of incredulous giggles. “Troth—I swear it is true! Some of their shoes are so long, the wearers must put bells on the tips so they can find their toes in a fog.” When he grinned at his own jest, their titters became laughter. And he moved along to the chandler’s stall and the tinsmith’s shop, pausing to examine the goods or to point to a house or building and ask about it.
Thera followed, listening with burning ears to his outrageous talk. But when she started to tap people on the shoulders and make her way through the crowd, she heard him asking about what crafts and trades they pursued, and stopped. Why would he wish to know about their occupations? Someone spoke up, revealing that some were farmers and tradesmen, but in some respect they all were involved with the city’s main industry . . . weaving cloth. When he asked what kind of cloth they made, they proudly responded: both silks and woolens . . . serges to whisper-thin silk veiling.
“I would like to see your looms. With my own eyes I have seen the great looms of the Saracens and the Venetians, and have watched the way they dye yarn and cloth and mark their patterns. . . .”
As he spoke, a number of little boys who had made their way through the legs of the crowd pushed toward him, until one of them dared reach out and touch his dagger from behind. He felt the movement and whirled, into a defensive crouch, catching the offender by the tunic. The other boys went squealing back into the crowd, and the adults muttered nervously.
“What’s this?” he said in his sternest voice, and the boy trembled in his grip. “Not a thief, I hope.” A voice from the crowd answered.
“It were a child’s prank, sarr. Them other boys dared ’im to touch yer blades.”
“Is that so?” When the lad nodded, Saxxe eased his grip and studied the boy’s ruddy face and neat, bowl-cropped hair. “I have a way of dealing with such brazen deeds!” He pulled out one of his long daggers, and there was a collective gasp. Then he offered it, hilt first, to the boy with a wry grin. “Bravery should always be rewarded. Go on . . . hold it for a moment.”
The boy took it with shaking hands and reverently turned it over and over, then glanced warily up at Saxxe. Audible sighs of relief came from the mothers and fathers. And soon a number of children were creeping from behind their mothers’ skirts, venturing closer. Saxxe knelt down on one knee, studying them even as they studied him. One intrepid little fellow with his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth reached out a finger to touch Saxxe’s beard. Just before he made contact, he glanced up to find Saxxe staring at him.
“Take care, lad,” he warned, jerking a thumb toward his face. “I’ve had as many as six little boys lost in this beard at one time. They fall in and can’t find their way out. I usually have to send in a brace of blooded hounds to find them!” Surprised laughter came from the adults, and Saxxe couldn’t help chuckling as he offered his beard for examination. “Go on . . . feel.” It might have been the glint of amusement in his eyes or the warmth in his deep voice . . . something charmed the boy past his fears.
“It’s soft!” he cried out with an excited grin, ruffling his fingers through it.
Thera stood to one side, having finally pushed through the crowd. She watched Saxxe teasing the children and felt a melting sensation in her middle. Seeing his manner with them reminded her of how breathtakingly gentle he could be. Then she caught the admiring glances he cast toward the mothers, and watched the mothers’ cheeks glow as they lowered their eyes. Little boys were not all that got caught in that wicked beard, she realized with a rush of irritation.
Her people were like children in many ways . . . skittish, easily charmed, and alarmingly eager to please. Her protective impulses rose as she recalled his oft-repeated declaration that he did nothing without expecting a profit. What could he expect to gain from her sheltered people?
“What do you think you are doing, Rouen?” she said, stepping forward. He turned and she caught—full force—the devastating impact of his tautly reined power. She felt the sweep of his gaze like a physical sensation, and quelled a shiver. Then she drew her shoulders up straighter and demanded, “You have no business here.”
“I am curious about your kingdom and your people. And I have nothing better to do . . . unless, of course, you are ready to start paying your debt to me.” When her mouth tightened into an angry line, he smiled. “I thought not.” And he swaggered off to continue exploring. The Mercians studied their princess’s sudden ire, then struck off after him. She had to hurry to keep up with them.
He paused before a large, round stone structure built without windows. “What’s this?”
“One of the granaries, Yer Grace,” came a man’s voice from the crowd.
Thera blanched at the way they addressed him. “Your Grace” was what they sometimes called her! She pushed through the throng and planted herself between him and the granary door.
“There’s nothing of interest to you in there. Now kindly remove yourself back to the palace. . . .” But his eye was already lighting on a large shop across the way.
“What’s this?” He stared at the bush on the signboard above the door and was surprised to recognize it. “A vintner!” He headed straight for it and ducked inside, greeting the shopkeeper and plying him with questions about his grapes and the wine they imported from the Champagne region.
“He doesn’t need to see your stores, Howard Vinton,” she told the proprietor, planting herself in the doorway to the cavernous cellar below. Saxxe peered around her, told the fellow “Another time,” and ducked back out the door with an infuriating smile.
The apothecary was next, then the harnessmaker and one of the bakers. Whatever he picked up, she snatched from his hands; whatever he wanted to see, she tried to shield from his view. By the time they started down the third side of the market square, she was steaming visibly, and his enthusiasm for his explorations had become a thinly disguised rebellion.
He entered the church and walked boldly toward the beautiful rose-windowed chancel—without a proper genuflection!—then stood admiring the ceiling and altar and breathing in the heavenly scent of beeswax tapers.
“No less than a bishop must be responsible for so beautiful a nave,” he declared. “I’d like to meet him.”
“That will be impossible,” Thera snapped, striding to the front. “He’s been dead more than a hundred years. Now, do you mind leaving?”
“Yea, I do mind,” he answered, standing in the sanctuary with scores of her people looking on. “You know, you are sorely lacking in hospitality, Thera of Aric. What sort of example is that for your people?”
It was as if someone had poured scalding water over her head.
“How dare you stand there and criticize my conduct toward my people or my example before them . . . you, who won’t bathe . . . or even cover your nakedness with decent clothes?” she blazed, stalking recklessly close to him, her chin thrust out. “It has nothing to do with hospitality!”
“Then perhaps there is something here you don’t wish me to see. What are you trying to hide?”
Everything! she wanted to scream. She would hide her entire kingdom from him if she could.
“No one knows better than I how profit-minded you are, Rouen. I do not intend to let you take advantage of my people. I won’t let you take their trust . . . then use it to take their money or their possessions.”
His eyes lost their roguish glint and narrowed. She didn’t want him to have any contact with her people; she was trying to
protect them from him! It stung—her belief that he might purposefully misuse these good folk for his own profit—and he reacted angrily.
“The only thing I intend to take in your precious kingdom, Thera of Aric,” he declared in a voice at the bottom of its range, “is you!”
There it was, baldly stated. He wanted her and he intended to take her. And the part he left unspoken was clearly readable in his eyes: it was only a matter of time.
How dare he stand in front of her sexton and her priests and her people—in a church, no less!—and say such a thing to her? The man hadn’t a drop of shame in his entire body!
“I would rather bed with the swine than with the likes of you, Rouen.” She dragged a furious glare down his sparsely clad frame. “The smell would certainly be better!”
Again, his reaction was unexpected. He edged forward and loomed over her with a cool, vengeful smile.
“You didn’t seem to mind my smell last night, demoiselle.”
She jerked her chin back and tried to summon a retort. Her lips moved, but not a single word issued forth.
A murmur of excitement went through the people crowded into the back of the church as his words and her lack of them were relayed to those still outside. They couldn’t recall another single time when Thera of Aric had been rendered speechless!
Wheeling, she found herself facing a score of faces filled with undisguised fascination. She was halfway out before she recovered enough to realize that she might have no control over him, but she was still their princess. Immediately, she spread her hands and began to sweep her people along with her.
“You have better things to do than stand around gawking! Sext hasn’t rung yet,” she declared. “Go back to your work, all of you!” As they lowered their eyes and turned back to their labors, she tossed a glare over her shoulder at Saxxe, adding: “And you’ll do well to stay clear of him and his hairy friend. Trust me . . . they will bring you nothing but trouble.”
Saxxe paused on the step just outside the church doors . . . appreciating the womanly sway produced by her determined stride, but also roundly frustrated by her superior, mistrustful attitude toward him. He might manage to claim her passions, but she had just served notice that a fleeting pleasure was all he would have. She still treated him like a dirty, greedy, uncouth barbarian who strode about half naked and didn’t belong in her precious kingdom. He clearly had his work cut out for him.
As he stepped onto the street with a thoughtful frown, he glimpsed several men wearing leather aprons, standing nearby and staring at him.
“Can you tell me where I could find your forge?” he addressed them. “I wish to see how your smith does his work.”
“Yea, sir . . . this way, sir,” one said, jolting forward.
The others looked at each other and hurried along behind them. And as they watched Saxxe’s powerful, manly gait, they gradually drew their shoulders up straighter and a hint of his swagger crept into their strides.
Chapter Fourteen
The forge was located at the far edge of the city, tucked amid a number of wooden sheds and pens of horses and other hoof stock. As Saxxe’s party passed houses and shops along the way, people paused in their labors and stuck their heads out their doors and windows to see him. Word of his destination spread, and a number of men excused themselves from their benches, stalls, and shops to trail behind him . . . insisting they too had business with the smith.
“This is it? Your forge?” he asked, standing before a modest stone structure with a single hearth. “One hearth for so many people? And how many smiths do you have?”
“Two,” came another voice.
“Unless you count Edward, who is really a tinsmith,” said his guide.
Saxxe scowled and ducked inside the building. By the hazy light coming from the open windows he saw stacks of buckets and barrels and tinware needing repair. As he looked around, he found hammers and tongs and rods of brass and bronze lying idle on benches. At the rear of the structure he finally spotted numerous wooden bins filled with the things he would have expected in a smithy: pieces of iron in recognizable shapes . . . hinges, pokers, spade heads, harness pins, and cooking spits. There was an air of neglect about the place, lent by the incongruous tidiness of the floor and worktables.
His guide called to the head smith, and just as the strapping fellow entered from the back room another visitor arrived. He drew his robust, gray-templed form up as tall as possible and introduced himself to Saxxe as a member of the Council of Elders and the captain of the palace guard . . . Elder Hubert.
Saxxe frowned. “I don’t recall seeing a palace guard.”
“Well, you may certainly see them now,” Hubert said with great dignity. “I have brought them to meet you.” Saxxe’s hand went instinctively to his dagger. But Hubert beckoned to someone outside, and two tall, broad-shouldered young men ducked through the door and stood clasping their wrists before Saxxe. Hubert gestured to them. “The best marksmen in all Mercia. And”—he added with considerable pride—“my two nephews. Castor and Pollux.”
Saxxe acknowledged them, and when they returned the nod, he could have sworn they blushed.
“And if I may be so bold . . . I have something of a request, sir.” Hubert drew himself up with a reassuring pat of the short sword which hung at his side. “When you drew yon blade in the square, we thought we glimpsed . . . blue. If you would permit it, we would deem it an honor to examine your steel, sir.” The head smith and the other men crowding into the smithy echoed that request.
Saxxe drew his daggers and laid one in Hubert’s hand, the other in the smith’s. There was an immediate murmur as the steel was held up to the dusty light and examined with great reverence. The burly smith looked transported.
“Damascus steel. It truly is blue! And see the wave pattern in the blade? I have heard stories of it, but never thought to see it myself. And you have a sword . . . is it the same?” When Saxxe nodded, a mist rose in the burly smith’s eyes.
“I’ll show it to you tomorrow, if you like.” He turned to Castor and Pollux. “Now, perhaps you will return the favor and show me your garrison.”
“Garrison, sir?” one of the pair said. “We have no garrison.”
“Then who mans your walls?”
“Walls, sir?” the other said with a quizzical look. “We have no walls.”
Saxxe was struck speechless. Indeed, they had no walls. He had been so preoccupied as he rode into the valley and so shocked as he entered the city that he hadn’t given notice to the lack of walls and fortifications. Now, as he gazed at the palace guard—a force of three—he made the additional discovery that only Elder Hubert carried a weapon, and that but a small, ceremonial sword of ancient bronze.
“We would be honored, sir, if you would join the young men tomorrow after the ringing of None, midafternoon,” Elder Hubert said. “A number of them participate in trials and games and archery practice on odd days . . . and tomorrow is odd.”
Saxxe nodded, thinking that every day in this place was a bit odd. He probably already knew the answer, but he asked anyway: “And where is your armory . . . and your armorer?”
“Armory, sir?” Elder Hubert said with a wince.
“We . . . have . . . no . . . armory,” Saxxe pronounced, along with the rueful elder.
He continued his explorations with the city stables. The stone-walled structure was large enough for scores of horses, but there was an air of disuse here as well. Gasquar was there, seeing to their mounts, and as they looked around the main stalls together, they were approached by another breathless, blue-clad elder, who had just arrived. Hubert introduced him as Elder Mattias.
“I have been admiring your steeds, good sirs,” Mattias said. “Magnificent animals. Truly inspired breeding. Did you train the big gray yourself, sir?” When Saxxe answered in the affirmative, he sighed. “Once, these stables were filled with fine racing stock. Now, we are reduced to plow horses and palfreys. Useful animals are the order of the day. I don�
��t suppose you would care to see?”
But he did care. Saxxe made a thorough inspection of the premises, and despite Mattias’s gloomy assessment, found a number of fine mares in the lot of saddle horses. The elder’s long face lit with hope as Saxxe and Gasquar ran their hands over several animals and pronounced them promising.
“It is not only the bloodlines . . . important as they are. It is also the training,” Saxxe said. “My family raised and trained horses for many years . . . some of them fine, fast animals. Every horse has bursts of speed in its sinews. It takes but the right sort of training to bring it out. With a bit of work, some of these animals might surprise you.”
“You think so?” Mattias said, brightening visibly.
Saxxe’s eyes twinkled as he glanced at Gasquar. “I’d be willing to wager on it.”
When they left the stables with Mattias and Hubert, Saxxe rubbed his chin and declared, “I’ve a powerful thirst. What say we find a tavern and have a draught of ale?”
“Oh, I fear that won’t be possible,” Mattias said apologetically. “Sext, the midday bell has not rung . . . and it is hours until the Vesper bell and the close of the day’s work. The alehouses will not open for some time.”
“The taverns are closed?” Gasquar echoed, glancing at Saxxe in astonishment. “Sacre Bleu! The people . . . what do they drink?”
“Home ale,” Mattias said. “Or water. We have very fine, clean water.”
“The taverns do not open until Vespers?” Saxxe said in a strangled voice. “Bon Dieu—why?”
“Well . . .” Mattias glanced at Hubert in confusion. “That is the time for drinking ale in company . . . after work is done. Just as None is the time for a bit of food.”
“And Prime is the time for rising and Tierce is the time for the opening of trade,” Hubert added. “There is an order of things, you know. A place for everything and everything in its place.” He exchanged nods of conviction with Mattias.
