A Lamentation of Swans

by Desiree Acuna

  In any case, she knew he was right. The crowd was generally so rowdy after the dance that it was next to impossible for the others to perform. Moreover, by waiting for the dancers to perform last, the diners were usually too intoxicated to present a great deal of trouble. Quite often, a good half of the men had already fallen into a drunken stupor before they even began to dance and even those who had not were in no state to act upon any amorous intentions they might have and it was easy enough for her and Gilly to pull their cloaks on once more and melt away into the crowd.

  That was usually the case. Roslyn couldn’t help but notice that the men at arms crowded into the great hall seemed predominantly sober for celebrants. She’d noticed a few staggering about, and perhaps a handful lolling at the table, or beneath it, snoring loudly, but most, although not entirely sober, were far more alert than she would’ve expected.

  She exchanged an uneasy glance with Gilly, wondering if she’d noticed. Apparently, she had, for her eyes, usually gleaming with mischief, were dark with anxiety.

  It was too late to formulate another plan.

  Surreptitiously, Roslyn peered toward the high table. Her heart tripped over itself.

  Uneasy about drawing unwanted attention, she’d taken care to stand behind Gilly when they’d made their way to the cleared area below the lord’s table, nor had she glanced even once toward the lords seated there, certain it would only make her more uneasy about performing. At almost the same moment that she looked up, however, Lord Roland leaned toward his brother and their gazes seemed to lock across the distance.

  A suffocating sense of panic washed over her, for his eyes were so cold and pale a shade of blue, they seemed to stab through her like an ice pick, even across the distance that separated them. With an effort, she quelled the panic, reminding herself that she was covered from head to toe. He could not possibly tell anything at all about her, even if she was right and he was staring at her. He could not have seen her eyes in the shadows beneath her hooded cloak and could not have intended to make eye contact.

  She was still stiff with nerves, however, when Braun signaled that she and Gilly were to take their places to begin the dance. It took an effort to still her quaking heart, to focus upon her performance. Dropping the robe at the edge of the dance floor, she moved into position, her head bowed, her eyes closed while she sought the inner peace she needed. With the first strains of the music, she opened her eyes, focused upon a point between the shoulders of the two men seated at the center of the table and allowed her joy of music and dance to wash over her. The sights and sounds around her faded to insignificance as she dipped and twirled, gyrating her hips to make the tiny metal disks sewn along the waist of her costume tinkle like tiny bells. The brightly colored veils swirled about her, revealing glimpses of heated flesh, then concealing once more.

  She was breathless, but exuberant, when the dance ended at last and she and Gilly settled like fallen blossoms on the chill stone floor.

  Utter silence followed the last, dying note of Braun’s lute and fear tightened inside her belly. Warily, Roslyn lifted her head, rose unsteadily.

  She found she could not evade Lord Roland’s gaze that time. From the moment she lifted her head, she was caught as surely as if he had manacled the enormous hands fisted atop the table around her. A half dozen painful heartbeats passed. Blinking slowly, as if coming out of a deep sleep, Lord Roland’s gaze flickered beyond her. Forcing his lips to curl in a semblance of a smile, he lifted his hands and began to clap. As if it had needed that to rouse his men from their stupor, the hall erupted then into loud approval.

  Roslyn and Gilly exchanged a glance of relief, curtseyed deeply, and backed toward the robes they’d discarded.

  “Nay! I would have another dance!”

  Roslyn froze in her tracks as Lord Phillip spoke, her gaze flickering uneasily to Braun. Braun’s smile looked slightly forced, but he bowed.

  “Perhaps tomorrow,” Lord Roland said, his voice sounding strangely rough. “We will have a full day tomorrow and must rise early.” He stood abruptly when he had spoken, ignoring the glare his brother sent him, and strode from the room, pausing only a moment to speak to his steward. The scrape of benches being pushed back instantly flooded the great hall as Lord Roland’s men at arms rose from the tables to seek their own pallets.

  The troop exchanged nervous glances. “Is this bad, do you think, Braun?” Harry, the youngest of the group, asked uneasily.

  Braun shook his head, but before he could voice his opinion, the steward stepped up to them, clamping a hand on Roslyn’s arm. “My lord requests a private dance from the woman.”

  Chapter Two

  Roslyn’s eyes widened with alarm, but she knew even as she glanced at Braun that he not only would not object, he would be furious with her if she rejected the request. In any case, it was not a request and they all knew it.

  Roslyn’s thoughts were chaotic as the steward led her from the great hall and up the winding stairs to the lord’s quarters. Foremost in her mind was whether or not she was being taken to Lord Roland, or his brother.

  One seemed as possible as the other in that neither seemed at all likely. Lord Phillip’s bride had already arrived. He was to take his vows within the se’nnight. He could not, surely, mean to insult his bride by bedding a female, even one as lowly as herself, just before he took his vows?

  On the other hand, the tales about Lord Roland had been very specific about his infirmity and the speech he had made as she had entered the great hall certainly seemed to bear up the veracity of those rumors. That being the case, why would he have any interest at all in commanding a private dance?

  She did not have as long to scare herself silly as she would have liked. The steward thrust her through a doorway near the head of the stairs, closed it firmly behind her, and departed.

  Firelight danced and crept along the stone walls. Near the hearth, Lord Roland was sprawled negligently in a high backed chair, his gaze brooding as he studied her. For many moments, Roslyn could only stare back at him, her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth.

  He seemed far bigger even than she’d thought observing him from a distance, even without the armor he’d worn earlier, for he’d discarded it in the time since he had left the hall and wore no more now than his chausses and a simple tunic that seemed to strain at the seams from the muscles that banded his chest and upper arms. She saw, when she had nerved herself to lift her gaze, that he was not as old as she would have supposed given that he had appointed an heir, could not be much the elder of the two brothers.

  His features were boldly male, and surprisingly attractive given the unyielding set of his strong jaw and chin, the harsh angles of his cheeks, his blade of a nose, and the harsh set of his thin lipped mouth.

  Surprise flickered through her when she saw his eyes were dark and she wondered, briefly, what had given her the impression that they were so pale until he summoned her with a flick of one index finger. As she moved nearer, she saw that his pupils were dilated—due to the dimness of the room or something else she preferred not to consider--but the thin sliver of iris surrounding the pupil was very pale indeed.

  “Take off the robe.”

  Swallowing with an effort, Roslyn complied, dropping it to the floor at her feet.

  “The veil over your face, as well.”

  Roslyn hesitated for a split second and finally loosened the veil on one side, allowing it to fall. There was no doubt in her mind then that his eyes were dilated with desire, for they darkened even more as he studied her. She moistened her dry lips with an effort, feeling her belly quiver indescribably as his gaze settled on her mouth. “You wanted me to dance for you?” she asked with an effort.

  His gaze flickered down her length and then up again, lingering for several moments on her breasts. A faintly derisive smile quirked one corner of his lips. “Aye,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Pleasure me with your dance.”

  It would have been easier to comply if he had
been thoughtful enough to summon Braun, as well, to play while she danced, but she knew why he had not and did not dare suggest it. Bowing her head, she bent to scoop the robe up and tossed it out of her way.

  Closing her eyes, she began to hum the tune, allowing the rhythm of the dance to work its way slowly through her stiff, unresponsive muscles. The music began to play inside her head, energy flowing from it into her muscles, and she became lost in the dance as she so often did when she performed.

  She was unnerved to discover when she had prostrated herself on the floor with the end of the dance and finally lifted her head that Lord Roland had risen from his chair. His back was to her, his gaze on the flames in the hearth.

  She studied him uncertainly for several moments, wondering if she should rise and leave the room quietly or remain as she was. Finally, she stood. He turned at the movement, his face stony and Roslyn felt her pulse leap with anxiety. “I will try again,” she said quickly.

  His lips tightened. “Enough!” he said harshly.

  The harshness of his voice made her heart jerk painfully. For her part, men seemed entirely too ready to express their displeasure with their fists and she didn’t harbor any doubts that this one was any different. She took a nervous step back, but held her ground as it occurred to her that she would have Braun to contend with even if she managed to escape Lord Roland unscathed—which seemed debatable since the door was closed, and possibly bolted, as well. “I beg pardon if I have displeased you, my lord.”

  He lifted a hand and scrubbed it across the dark stubble on his chin. “Nay. You have not displeased me,” he said tiredly. “By what name are you known?”

  “Rose,” Roslyn stammered. It was dangerous, she knew, to use a name so close to her own, but less fraught with disaster, she had decided, than not responding to a name she might have invented. That would certainly have aroused suspicions and she had known that Rolphe was searching for her when she had first fled.

  He looked her over and the corners of his mouth curled so faintly she wondered if she had imagined the smile. “Surprisingly appropriate.” He turned away, studying the fire. “You may go, Rose,” he added.

  After a stunned moment of disbelief, she bobbed a quick curtsey and moved hastily toward the door. Remembering her robe as she reached it, she dashed back for the robe, bobbed another curtsey, and threw the robe around her as she headed toward the door again.

  A mixture of relief and dread flooded her as she let herself out. Braun was not going to be pleased to see her again this eve for, despite the rumors to the contrary, she knew he had expected that she would spend the night with Lord Roland.

  Chapter Three

  Roslyn hesitated indecisively once she had reached the corridor. Braun was likely to question her about returning and possibly very unpleasantly. There was some safety in bedding down with her fellow troubadours, however, that she might regret giving up if she decided to sleep elsewhere.

  After some consideration, she finally decided that it was doubtful she could avoid Braun’s wrath whatever she did and it might be easier to face tonight, while he might be constrained by the others crowded around them. Several men at arms eyed her as she picked her way through the great hall in search of her party, but, to her relief, none accosted her. Braun sat up and glared at her when she crawled between Gilly and Lon. “Ye’ve not crowned the lord with a fagot like ye did the last one?” he whispered harshly.

  “I danced for him. He told me I could go.”

  Braun eyed her suspiciously. “This is truth?”

  “Aye.” She considered it a moment. “He asked me to take off the veil. Mayhap what he saw did not appeal to him?”

  Braun’s look was disbelieving. Finally, he shrugged. “Mayhap yer too thin fer his liking.”

  Without quite knowing why it was, Roslyn felt a pang at that comment. She had thought him exceptionally attractive, both very handsome and well built. Given the rumors, she had not expected that he would find her attractive and had wondered why he’d even commanded a private performance. In truth, she was certain she did not want him to, but it was still disturbing to think he had found her so completely unappealing that he had not even been tempted.

  How much faith could she place in the tales she’d heard? She had not believed that they could be completely true, she realized. Some had had the ring of truth—particularly the part about the bloody conquest of the land. She didn’t doubt that many had cursed him for it, but she had not actually believed any of the curses had had the power to actually affect him. She was still more inclined to think, if it was true and he had been ‘unmanned’, then it was due to a war wound, not the curse of some poor serf who had been raped.

  But was it true at all? Was he incapable of bedding a woman? Or just disinterested in her in particular?

  She fell asleep still pondering it. The scrape of trestle tables as the serfs began setting up to break fast woke her shortly before dawn. It took an effort to drag herself up. Still more than half asleep, she followed Gilly outside to the well to freshen up. The water was icy and effectively brought her fully awake. Shivering with the cold, she dabbed half-heartedly at cleaning and then went with Gilly in search of a place to relieve herself.

  The trumpets sounded at the gate as she and Gilly were heading back and they paused to see who the arrivals were. In a few moments, she caught a glimpse of Lord Roland and his brother leading a large party of men. As the keep began filling with men on horses, she and Gilly scampered for the safety of the castle to keep from being run down in the general melee.

  Roslyn found once she was inside that her heart was still fluttering uncomfortably fast. Part of it was fear, she knew. Anyone with a whit of sense experienced fear when they found themselves in the path of mounted men at arms. She’d thought, too, although it may have been no more than her imagination, that Lord Roland had looked directly at her and even the thought that she might have attracted his notice unnerved her.

  It was not altogether fear, however, and she knew it because it wasn’t until she caught sight of Lord Roland that her heart had jerked strangely in her chest, and it wasn’t until she’d looked at him that she’d felt a knee weakening rush and a flush of warmth.

  Her stomach was so knotted with nerves it was next to impossible to choke down food, but Roslyn struggled to eat as much as she could, knowing that she could not count on another meal. When they’d broken their fast they found space in one of the barns and began rehearsing for the night’s entertainment. In honor of the bride, Roslyn and Lon were to sing a love ballad, accompanied by Lon’s lute. Braun would sing a war ballad in honor of the groom, who was known to be a fine warrior—not nearly as impressive as his elder brother, Lord Roland, but well respected. Will and Peter practiced a series of tumbling and juggling moves they hoped with thrill and impress the castle folk.

  By the time Braun was finally satisfied that everyone had their parts memorized, it was nearing dusk and they were allowed free time until the evening meal. Most of the troupe fled at once into the more hospitable comfort of the castle, joining the guests and castle folk congregating there to entertain themselves while they waited for food to be served. Roslyn wasn’t especially anxious to do so. She had no particular reason to fear that her husband might be one of the guests, but she never liked to take unnecessary chances. After her disappearance, he had put it about that she had died. She didn’t think he would be pleased to discover that she was still very much alive.

  She wandered through the crowded bailey for a time, halfheartedly watching the performers from some of the other troupes who were working the crowd, searching for a place where she might seek quiet reflection without the danger of being accosted by any of the drunken revelers.

  Finally, she mounted the stairs that led up to the battlements. Despite the general air of celebration, there were guards posted along the wall, but a handful only, and she found an overlook at last that was unoccupied. The wind off of the moors snatched her hood from her head the moment she rea
ched the crenulated wall, whipping her bright hair around her like a lash and chilling her to the bone. Gathering the tresses in one hand, she tucked the whipping mass of hair into the back of her cloak and pulled the hood up again, clutching the edges tightly at her throat.

  A sense of loneliness filled her as she stared out over the darkening moors and memories of the home where she had grown to adulthood flooded her. She had never thought that she would miss the home of her childhood. At the time that she had left, she had been glad to be leaving.

  She could still recall how excited she had been when her father had told her that she was a woman grown and he had arranged a marriage for her. For many weeks she had floated around on a cloud of fantasy and hope, but Rolphe had been a disappointment to her girlish fantasies. Nearly thirty, he had been as hairy as a beast and battle scarred. The choice was not hers, however, and she had soon convinced herself that he was not ill favored, not so very old, after all. Moreover, her father’s arrangement meant that she would be a lady of stature. Rolphe’s holdings were vast, and he was respected by his peers and his men.

  Her father had remarried the year before and his young bride had already produced a male heir for her father. She had allowed herself to be encouraged by thoughts of having babes of her own … thoughts of being chatelaine of her own castle. She was nigh fourteen winters, only a year younger than her father’s new bride and it had chafed her to find her place usurped by her father’s wife.

  She had been shocked to discover the marriage bed was distasteful to her. Her stepmother had not seemed to find it so, and her father was many years older than her own husband. She had told herself that it was simply something she would grow accustomed to, and hopefully grow to like, but she had not. For the most part, coupling with Rolphe had ceased to be a painful experience, but the acts he had demanded of her had not become any easier to bear. In truth, she had come to dread her marriage bed more and more as time went on.