The King's Man

by Elizabeth Kingston

  In the end he had decided it wasn’t trust, but simple fatigue. As the sun was rising, he watched her jerk awake, an alarmed look quickly followed by dismay and then faint confusion when she saw he lay harmlessly a few feet away. He was glad she said nothing, only shared her water and offered him another oatcake to break his fast.

  At mid-morning, she led the way into a thick copse of trees and to his surprise, there was a pool there, small and deep and clear. It was fed by a thin stream that wound its way through the brush to collect its waters here in the shade before moving on again to the east. Everything was covered in moss, cool and moist, the canopy overhead shielding them from the harshest rays of the sun.

  “You know this place?” he asked her, startled by how sure she was. It was as if this was her own land.

  “No,” she answered. That was all.

  Gone was the easy conversation of yesterday. Something in what he had said yesterday, or in the quiet camaraderie of last night had replaced her suspicion of him with her reserve, and it did not rest well with him. She said no more about Aymer, nor asked further about his motives. He wished he did not wonder what she thought, what she hid behind silver eyes and silence. He wished more that, even in this unfamiliar place, she was not so clearly the mistress of the situation.

  Sweat trickled down his neck and itched along his spine. Without thinking, he stripped off his leathern armor until he wore only linen undertunic and hose and walked to the edge of the pool. He knelt and plunged his head into the water up to his shoulders. It was not cold, but it was cool enough to refresh, and more pleasant than he expected to clean the sweat from him.

  He sat back and pulled off his shoes before wading in, soaking his filthy hose and tunic as he called behind him. “Is pleasing cool, the water. Wash the dust from you, Gwenllian of Ruardean.”

  Moments later, he looked up from watching the sand and mud suck at his toes beneath the clear water, to see her doing just that. She had pulled the hose from her legs and sat not far from him in only her shirt of mail. It came just to the tops of her thighs, and the tunic beneath reached almost to her knees. She had waded out to a large rock that jutted into the pool where she now sat, her legs stretched out in the water.

  Still silent, she reached out and offered him half of what she held: some of the roasted hare they had prepared last night, stuffed into the last of the hard bread she had brought with her. He took it in his damp hands and rejected her quiet closeness by moving to the opposite bank where the mossy root of a tree stood above the water and mud. He sat there, across the short distance of water from her and watched as she swallowed her food quickly, without speaking.

  He savored the meat, alternately following the progress of a snail across the smooth, flat stone near him, and watching her as she pulled a whetstone no bigger than her hand from the pouch she carried. Before he could utter a protest, she reached for his sword where he had left it on the bank – now easily in her reach and far from his own – and, laying it across her knees, began to hone the blade.

  “Is not near sharp as it could be, past two fingers from–”

  “From the tip, aye,” she interrupted, her words overlapping his.

  Her face was grim and set, no enjoyment of the task there. In her manner, he saw she did it not from solicitude, but because she saw the sword as her own property. It was just another weapon under her care which she allowed him to use, driven to it by circumstance and naught else. So she said in her brisk movements, in how she touched the blade as though it were her own.

  Ranulf put his hand on the rock, in front of the snail, to see if it would turn in its slow afternoon course across the stone. Her legs glinted white in the filtered sunlight. The linen of the tunic was wet where it clung to her knees, and he followed the line of her muscle up her thigh until it was hidden, midway up, by the long shirt of mail she wore. The sound of stone grated on him, almost as much as her critical look, keenly assessing the blade as she worked.

  “Does my lady forge iron, too?” he snorted. “Haps I could use a blacksmith on my estate. You’ve the proper build for it.”

  He did not look up, though he dearly would have loved to see the anger spark to life in her eyes. He could feel it across the water, hear it in the pause of the whetstone’s stroke. Her cousins must not remark on her sex at all, else she would not let such small things provoke her. Clearly she preferred the illusion that she was not female, so long as she was not dressed as one, and hated any reminder of what she was beneath the armor. But she said nothing, and he could not but admire her restraint.

  “You wield it well,” he said begrudgingly to the snail working its way slowly across dark gray rock toward his thumb. He thought briefly of crushing it, the delicate shell. “So well that no man would suspect a woman beneath the helm.”

  He intended to follow it with another jibe, another pointed look at her flat chest and a remark on her manliness. But she spoke before he could, and all thought of insult was driven from his mind by the war of curiosity and pride her words touched off.

  “I have never been so close to failing as when I faced you. Were it not for my training…” She trailed off and turned her attention once more to the sword she held.

  “You were trained as any other man?”

  She looked up at him, startled, her eyes a quick flash of gray across the murky green. “Aye. No quarter given for my sex, and trained as hard as any. From the time I learnt my balance until now, I have never lost it.” She spoke to the sand beneath the clear water. Her toes were pink.

  “Your balance?” he asked sharply. “Ruardean trains its knights from infancy?”

  She looked puzzled, her black brows drawn together. “I trained from the age of ten, no sooner. I meant. . .” She shrugged. “My balance. It is my advantage over you and other men. Is why I win.”

  The reminder of it shook him. It was not easy to forget it, but now she declared that she won. That she won over him and other men. And the sight of her with blade in hand did not let him forget his defeat. He wondered if he could cross the water, take her unawares, grab the other sword and challenge her. But her hand so sure on the hilt stayed him.

  What if it were not to blame – the night, or his injuries, or the surprise of seeing her face in the firelight? What if it were true, that she had an advantage over him? He could not bear it, to lose again. And he was not sure that he wouldn’t, did he test her now.

  His eyes went from her hands where she held the sword, to her face – and he remembered afterward. He remembered her mouth, the taste of it. The soft, sweet victory of her kiss. Her lips like a banquet, so unlike the spare flesh of her body. He met her eyes over the sword and held her gaze, gave her a slow and knowing grin.

  Her color rose, red creeping up from the collar of her mail to suffuse her neck, her cheeks. It was impossible to tell if it was shame or anger. But it was not shame that brought the challenge to her eyes, nor was it embarrassment in the lift of her chin.

  Pointedly, she brought the sword around, her eyes holding his as she stood, turning her wrist and swinging the blade in an arc at her side. She stood there, poised with the blade downward, just scraping at the surface of the water, eyes narrowed at him. From woman to warrior in an instant, she did not let the merest challenge go unchecked.

  When he did not move, her look dismissed him, and she walked to the bank. There, her legs dripping, she let the sword drop on his discarded hauberk before turning to face the pool again. She knelt with flask in hand, holding it under the water to fill it, and looked up at him again.

  She had been trained well, and he felt her awareness of him, tensed and expectant, waiting for him to stand and walk through the water toward her. She did not move as he came on, water sloshing with his stride. He only looked at her mouth and watched her falter minutely as he reached her, her breath drawn in sharply as she straightened and looked to where he towered above her.

  She did not move. Oh no, not Gwenllian of Ruardean, who never gave quarter. He looke
d down at her, thinking of how brief the sweet victory over her had been, and how he craved more of it, as he craved that lush, ripe mouth, so attractive when not boasting of his defeat. And he knew without a doubt that this was one battle he could win against her. Perhaps it was the only one.

  He dropped to his knees facing her, his toes still submerged in the water. He leaned slowly toward her, her eyes still locked defiantly on his, accepting the challenge of his nearness, until she saw that he bent to her lips. She inhaled sharply and drew her face back, a faint shake of her head.

  It made him smile, her quick retreat. “Yield you so soon, Gwenllian?” he taunted.

  “No.” Her answer came swiftly, breathless but firm. It told him everything, that she did not look him in the eye. “I fear no man.” The words were measured and rhythmic, like a prayer she had been taught, something to chant in evil times.

  She wanted the fight. He could see it in her, that she wanted him to reach for the sword, preferred it to his lips on hers. Every inch of her was tensed for it, anticipating force and violence. He took a cue from her own victory over him and opted for surprise, bringing his hand up to her cheek. He held it there, fingers spread across her skin, thumb pressing gently on her lower lip. And still she did not move.

  He moved his thumb up, crossing her mouth like a bar. He would not take what she did not yield. But he could make her yield.

  Toward that end he brought his other hand forward, skimming along her tunic, fingers slowly smoothing over the fabric. He just barely felt her quick inhalation of surprise, felt her control it and steel herself to his touch as comprehension of what he intended flashed in her eyes. And now every action and reaction became a dare, a challenge for who would yield.

  He held true to course, his hand slipping beneath the tunic, stroking slowly, so slow that to watch her flat and unresponsive stare was hypnotic. It was deliciously obscene, the way his hand slipped beneath her layers of linen and mail to find the swell of her hip, small and barely rounded, a soft curve hidden beneath the steel. It roused him to wonder what other curves he could find in her body, what other woman’s secrets were hidden among the sharp angles and hard muscles.

  His hand reached her curls, and he imagined them as night-dark as the black tresses her Welshmen named her for. He watched her eyes widen slightly as her mail gave a faint chink, his fingers moving to the moist warmth between her thighs, some of it her own wetness, some of it from the water at his feet. As he touched her, her hand shot out. She grasped his arm just above the wrist, as though to stop him from going further.

  He raised an eyebrow at her, questioning. Curiosity and a faint fear were there in her, but both were overpowered by the distinct feel of her outrage. He welcomed it. She was stubborn and prideful, and if she was angry then he knew she would not back down, not even from this. Even as he thought it, her expression changed from angry surprise to a defiant indifference, a determination to show him that what he did had no effect on her. Her hand remained on his forearm, but relaxed, the rest of her still as stone. He felt the blood leap up in him, now the contest was fully engaged.

  It was a strange sensation, to have his hand up the skirt of a woman, fondling her as her armor gently sounded with every movement of his hand. He shifted his gaze from her eyes that hid too much, and looked instead at her mouth. The full lips pressed against his thumb as his other hand moved, sliding silently, slow and steady, teasingly sure.

  He had not thought of her like a woman, not her body. But it was surpassing soft, her skin. It was a softness he felt like a fire. And she was hot there, like any woman. Hot and soft and slick, and her mouth so ripe, so ready to be kissed. His body reacted as with any woman, only more urgent, more aroused by the novelty of it, the thought of her submission, of her defeat. The thought of her lips, so full and opening now, softly, slightly, there beneath his thumb.

  His own mouth ached, his eyes fixed on her lips. Her head tilted back, her eyes drifting closed, and then came the sweet sound of her labored breath. A hot gasp rushed from her open mouth, over his thumb that pressed her lips harder, the only thing stopping him from tasting her. Beneath his fingers, between her legs, she grew softer, wetter, the core of her melting in his hand.

  He could feel the struggle in her. Beneath his hands, she was soft but unyielding, her body drifting closer to his, yet tense and unbending. Her grip on his arm became rhythmic, pulsing in time with the stroke of his fingers between her thighs. And he knew she was lost. This was the moment, this–if he could pull himself from her now–when he would take his hands away and watch her body strain for him. Her own need would defeat her.

  Slowly, he began to let his hands fall away. His thumb slid reluctantly away from her lips, so lush and upturned, inviting. His other hand he let fall slowly, so slowly, from the warmth, the heated slickness that he had made, until his fingertips just grazed her inner thigh.

  Her eyes came open, and there was no guardedness there anymore. He saw recognition in her, the realization that this had been his design. But he saw desire, too. A desire like he had never imagined, hunger that matched his own. She held his gaze for a suspended moment, not moving. There was naught but static stillness between them, a deep breath amidst the drowning need, a brief balance before he would fall away and she would hang her head in shame.

  But instead, her mouth came forward onto his, fast and hard, crushing his lips with hers. Her tongue delved boldly into his mouth and he pressed back, drinking her in at last while her grip tightened on his forearm and pushed his hand back into her heat, grinding herself against his palm.

  Need, intense and explosive, washed over him as he devoured her mouth. It obliterated all thought, her unpracticed lust. His fingers moved in her, his arm tight along her body where she held him to her. He gripped her smooth, slim hip with his free hand as she whimpered into his mouth, over and over again. Through the thin undertunic he wore, her mail pressed hard against him – no feel of her breasts, nothing womanly at all except her mouth beneath his and the tender flesh in his hands.

  He felt her muscles tensing, a clench and then release as he slid his arm across the small of her back, supporting her as her knees spread farther apart, arching her back and gasping. He would have freed himself of his damp clothes and laid her on the cool green grass, would have plunged into her mindlessly, matching her fire with his own. But it was too late now. He could only grip her in an agony of astonished wanting, his tongue thrusting into her mouth to take in all the sweetness it offered, as her pleasure took her.

  It was all he could have wanted and more, her hips thrusting her against his hand, her body pressed hard against his as she gasped and moaned until it was done and she hung limp in his arms, a final faint sound of surrender on her lips.

  She was more woman in that moment than he had ever imagined she might be. That was the thought he had, even as he heard Madog calling for her in the distance.

  CHAPTER 9

  In the ornamental gardens of the English King to whom her own father had sworn allegiance, she stood in a dress she hated. It bit into her shoulders. It tightened like a vice around her arms. There was not a moment she was unaware of how constrained she would be if she held a sword, how helpless she was made by these soft folds of cloth.

  Her eyes roamed over the little mounds and hillocks artfully spaced among the trees and pathways. Ladies lounged in silks, their servants all around. A troubadour strolled. Not a troubadour – a Welshmen, she realized. A bard. Now she listened, and heard that he sang the tale of Bran and Branwen, of the starling that a captive Branwen set loose to fly across the sea to her brother. The bird found him, and her brother came and set Branwen free.

  It pierced her as sure as any sword could have. Home, home… I do not belong here. She thought of Madog and how even now he would save her from Edward’s court. She had only to ask him. She could walk out of here and find him, and they would flee. They could stay in the Welsh hills with their kinsmen. She thought Madog would hide her even from her
mother’s intentions, if ever she asked it.

  It was sure Madog had sensed something, when at last they had met up again in the woods. At the sound of her name being called, she and Morency sprang apart, and she had moved with speed to dress herself. He had seemed as eager as she to pretend it had not happened, to hide the traces of their intimacy. Like two children caught at mischief and conspiring to keep the secret, they swiftly and silently righted themselves. Then she had looked at him, saying nothing but praying silently that he would not shame her before her men.

  That was nearly a week ago, and today she stood in her best dress, in the court of King Edward, waiting to meet with Robert de Vere. She and her mother had decided that de Vere was best placed to act as ally here at court, a man who was friend to the king but had no love for Morency. More important to Gwenllian, de Vere was a friend to her father despite whatever their past political differences may have been. Her father had spoken well of the man and de Vere, for his part, had always shown great courtesy to Eluned. After her father had left on Crusade, her mother had not gone to court again. Gwenllian had never thought to come.

  It was strange, and luxurious. There was the same filth as in any other large town she had ever seen, and the keep was no more or less impressive as Ruardean, or those of Gloucester or Hereford. But she had never thought she would listen to a Welsh bard in this most English of gardens, singing of Branwen the fair, who was trapped across the sea. Branwen was saved, only to end her days in grief. Soon the bard would reach the end and sing Branwen’s lament: “Woe to me that I was born, two fair islands have been laid waste because of me.” Once she was saved, that is how Branwen’s story ended: in grief and despair.

  It is how all stories of women end. Gwenllian was beginning to understand why. She was beginning to see that she herself could not be saved from what was happening to her.