Immortal Warrior (21 page)

“We cannot stop long,” said Sir Brand. “They wait supper on us at the manor.”

“It will take only a moment. Please,
messire
.”

He looked to Lord Ivo, who shrugged. “Let her look. Then I can tell Alaida her healer has seen your scars and perhaps she will stop grumbling about you riding out each day.”

“All right.” Sir Brand swung easily off his horse—remarkably easily, considering the hole in his side. Merewyn took a moment to set the clothes on a bench by the door and hang the hares on a peg beside it, then turned back to the knight. “Arm first,
messire
, if you please.”

She had thought Lord Ivo exaggerated when he spoke of scars, but when Sir Brand pulled up his sleeve, that was all that remained of the wound on his arm—a rough, red scar that looked to be perhaps a month old. She turned his hand up and touched his palm where the tears and scrapes had faded to mere lines. A shiver ran up her spine, and she glanced up to find eyes the color of a summer sky sparkling down at her.

“I told you I heal quickly,” he said.

Cheeks heating, she dropped his hand and stepped back a pace. “You will have to loose your braies for me to see the others.”

“I’ve had more women asking me to drop my breeks this week than in many a year,” Brand said to Lord Ivo, who laughed. He lifted his shirt and put his hands to his ties. “Does your husband not mind you having men, uh, bare themselves?”

“I have no husband, sir.”

His brows knitted together in puzzlement. “My mind was clouded, but I would wager a good horse that you said those were your husband’s old clothes.”

“So I did. But my husband is dead some five years since.”

“I am sorry for that, but grateful you still had his clothes. They got me back to Alnwick without freezing my . . . without freezing.”

She smiled at his quick change of direction. “Someday you must tell me how you came to be naked in the woods.”

“Someday.” He eased his braies down just enough to show her his hip and her smile faded. This wound, too, was healed far beyond expectation. The bruise, which should have been just beginning to fade, was nearly gone, and the edges of the wound had completely closed and healed, though a thick scab still clung to the part she had not been able to stitch. “This is . . . most strange. And most remarkable. Where are all my stitches?”

“I plucked most of them out. They pulled as it healed.” She nodded absently. “I had no silk to use. Now the thigh, sir.”

He dropped his braies lower, gave her barely a moment to see the angry red scar, then tugged them back up hastily.

“Quick healing is one thing,
messire
, but this is . . .” Magic, she wanted to say, but she knew too little of these men and where they stood with the Church to use the word. She repeated, “Remarkable.”

“My wife’s old nurse spread a poultice of honey and comfrey over the wounds each time she rebound them,” explained Lord Ivo. “She said it would speed the healing.”

Merewyn nodded, still absorbed by what she had seen. “Bôte is wise. I had no honey left, else I might have done the same.” Not that honey had done this, nor all the comfrey in England. There was something most strange about this man and his healing. “Tell your lady that Sir Brand is fit to do what he pleases, my lord, and that I say she may stop grumbling at him.”

“’Tis me she grumbles at,” he said, his eyes flashing with good humor, and she took a sudden liking to this new lord, despite the mystery surrounding his friend. He pulled his purse from his belt and drew out several coins, which he held out to her. “I wish to reward you for the aid you gave him.”

Merewyn shook her head. “I cannot take your coin, my lord. My family long ago pledged to aid the lords of Alnwick in return for free range of the woods. If I take your silver, the pledge is broken.”

“You took Brand’s hares,” he pointed out.

“He offered them as a gift, my lord, as I offered my care to him.” Her cheeks grew warm as Sir Brand smiled down on her.

“And I offer these coins as thanks,” said Lord Ivo.

“You may call it thanks, but I fear you mean it as payment.”

“’Tis a fine point.”

“On such fine points are pledges made and kept.”

“True enough,” he conceded. “But what if Brand had offered his hares as payment?”

“I would have taken them,” she said matter-of-factly. “For
he
is not lord of Alnwick.”

“And thankful for it,” said Sir Brand, chuckling. “By the saints, Ivo, this land of yours comes with more covenants and pledges than the throne of England.”

“This pledge goes back further than the throne, sir. The women of my family have been healers in these woods to a woman, back to a time before my grandmother’s grandmother’s grandmother. Before Alnwick was a vill, or England united, we were bound here to help those who need us.”

“Well, I for one am glad you were here, whatever pledges are behind it,” said Brand.

“As am I, even if you will not take my coin,” said Lord Ivo.

Sir Brand made moves to get back on his horse, and disappointment surged through Merewyn. “Would you not come in before you ride on, my lords? My table is poor, but I am a good cook with what I have. And I have ale and a little wine to share. You would be most welcome.”

“’Tis a kind offer, Merewyn, but we cannot,” said Lord Ivo. “My lady awaits, and it would not do to stop her grumbling about Brand only to have her start up again because we are late for supper.”

“Blame me, my lord. Tell her I insisted on poking and prodding to see why your knight heals so well, so that I may use his secret on others.”

“You may not want to do that,” said the nobleman. “It might make the others as stubborn as he. We will share your hospitality another time perhaps.”

The edges of the clouds still glowed as Sir Brand swung up onto his roan horse. Merewyn stood by her door watching them away.

“I will keep a pot of ale waiting for you, my lords,” she called out.

“And I will come to drink it one day,” promised Brand as they turned onto the path to Alnwick. “Fare you well, Merewyn of Alnwood, and once more, my thanks.” Just before the forest dark swallowed them, he whistled, and a large raven sailed down off a branch and landed on his shoulder.

The breath caught in Merewyn’s throat: the Father’s sacred bird, companion to a knight who healed far too quickly. No wonder the omens had been so clear. The seriousness of his wounds and the strange hurry in which he’d left had distracted her from the signs, but now that she turned her mind to it, there was little doubt—magic swirled around Sir Brand and his lord like gnats around a flame. It would be interesting to see why the gods had sent him into her life.

Other than to bring her meat, of course.

She looked at the hares, and her mouth watered with the thought of such a treat. One whole hare to roast, and another for the pot. She sent a silent blessing sailing off down the path where the two knights had disappeared and took up her knife to skin her meal before it grew too dark.

CHAPTER 14

UNDER ARI’S STEWARDSHIP, the motte gradually bulged upward behind the bailey like the cap of a sprouting toad-stool. Geoff returned from Durham with nearly two score men, which pushed things along more quickly and freed the village men, under Wat, to expand the bailey ditches and strengthen the paling wall.

Ivo and Brand got into the habit of checking the progress each night as they rode out of the forest, circling the growing mound before they headed in and handed the horses over to the ever-ready Tom. After supper they read the day’s message from Ari and scribbled instructions back to him before settling in for games or other entertainment. Most nights, Alaida sat nearby, silently stitching away on some project or other, then retired early, seemingly exhausted by the presence of the extra men and the work they entailed. Her fatigue worked in Ivo’s favor; she went to sleep so quickly and slept so deeply that he felt no jeopardy at all in slipping into her bed every few nights.

The gossips stayed quiet, and January lapsed into February, more quickly than Ivo would have thought possible. First plowing started at Candlemas, the furrows as regular as the passing days, and the motte continued to creep higher. There was comfort in the rhythm of it all, a pleasure in having a home to return to and familiar faces to see each night, which blunted both the constant fear of discovery and that other dread which hung over them. Whether it would last, only the gods knew, but for now, at least, life had a cadence that felt almost normal.

Thus it was unsettling to ride into the yard one night near the ides of February without Brand, who had announced a desire to sample Merewyn’s ale, and find, for the first time, no Tom. Frowning, Ivo rode around to the stable and handed Fax over to a boy he barely recognized. “Where’s Tom?”

“In the hall, m’lord. Lady Alaida asked for him.”

“Ah. Well, take care with my horse.”

“Aye, my lord. I help with Fax sometimes. I’ll see to him.”

What Ivo found in the hall only added to his sense of disquiet. Usually all was ready for supper when they arrived, with everyone present and washed and waiting. Tonight nothing was in place. People scurried around like ants, the tables were just being set up, and a jumble of kegs and boxes sat stacked near the door. A maid noticed him and hurried over to take his cloak.

“What the devil is going on? Where’s Geoffrey?”

“In the solar, my lord, with Lady Alaida. Shall I fetch him?”

“No. I’ll go.” Still frowning, he trotted upstairs, where he found Alaida holding court over a knot of servants that included both Geoffrey and the missing Tom.

The latter glanced up and saw Ivo, and his eyes went round and wide. “My lord. Forgive me. I didn’t realize the hour.”

“Clearly,” said Ivo. “I was—”

“The fault is mine, my lord,” interrupted Alaida, quickly putting herself between Ivo and Tom, as though she thought he might take his fist to the boy like he had to Wat. Ivo’s gut churned at this evidence of her continuing mistrust. Nearly a month now, and he still hadn’t found the way to correct his many mistakes with her. “I have distracted everyone for my own purposes, and Tom was caught up in it. Go, Tom.”

“What purposes could you have that put the entire manor in an uproar?” he asked as Tom dashed out the door.

She ignored him and smiled at the steward. “I believe we are finished here, Geoffrey. ’Tis time we sup.”

As Geoffrey and the others cleared the room, the bed came into view. At the foot, stacks of folded clothing sat next to her jewel casket, looking all too familiar. “The convent again?”

Either she missed the humor or she was in no mood for it. “Chatton and Houton. I have yet to take proper possession of my lands.”

“Nor have you mentioned this little progress to me,” he pointed out.

“It was not a deliberate omission, my lord. It only occurred to me today that I must make the trip now if I wish to return before Shrove Tuesday. I intended to tell you at supper.”

Tell, not ask,
he noted. “This is a poor time of year to travel.”

“The weather looks to hold a little, and ’tis only a short day’s ride, even to Chatton.” She picked up a pair of hose and refolded them unnecessarily. “I do this for you, my lord.”

“Indeed.”

“With the extra expense of the castle, it is doubly important that all the fiefs contribute fully to Alnwick’s coffers. As your wife as well as your vassal, I wish my own holdings to set a good example.”

“And to line your own purse, I hope. That was the point of the gift.”

“If all goes well. I leave on the morrow. I assume you have no objection to my going.”

Of course he had objections—several—but Ivo found himself floundering as she stood there looking up at him with calm expectation. At the time he’d given her the lands, he’d thought it likely he’d be discovered and gone before she needed to visit them, and that if by chance he weren’t, she would be more securely his wife. The idea of her riding off on her own when they barely spoke to each other from evening to evening made him uneasy. Yet she was right—as his vassal, it was her duty to see to her properties. And this was the time to do it, before sowing, so she could make whatever adjustments to her crops she saw fit.

“None at all,” he lied with a smile. “Who will you take with you?”

“Bôte and Hadwisa, of course, and Oswald has chosen several good men as guards and one to drive the cart. And I thought to take a steward with me as well, to help me check the accounts this first time. With your leave, perhaps Sir Ari could—”

“No.”

“But the motte is well started now and I will be but a fortnight, perhaps less. If I could have him—”

“Impossible.” He turned toward the fire, hoping its flicker would mask the jealousy that must show in his eyes. “He has pressing duties here. You may have Geoffrey.”

“Geoffrey has duties here also, my lord, perhaps more vital. The marling must be done and—”

“He will leave instructions,” said Ivo impatiently. She was right about who was most needed at Alnwick over the next weeks, but Ari could never go with her, even if Ivo had wanted him to—which he didn’t. It was bad enough knowing he was here with her all day, every day. “Ari will manage both his duties and Geoff’s. As you say, it will only be a fortnight.”

He braced himself for more argument, but she merely dipped her head in unexpected acquiescence. “As you wish, my lord. Geoffrey will serve well enough, and in truth, he already knows the lands and the men on it. I only thought Sir Ari would be less missed.”

The envy eating at him demanded to know, “Was there no other reason you wanted Ari?”

“I did think to collect a story he owes me as forfeit. He has been avoiding me for some weeks because of it.”

“Avoiding you?”

“I’ve barely seen him, even at dinner. He takes a peasant’s meal in the field with the men most days and seldom comes into the hall at all unless he must. Even then he spends his time stooped over his parchments like a monk. I think he has no dragon story in him and does not wish to admit it.”