Immortal Warrior (7 page)

The hall erupted in laughter, Sir Brand’s loudest of all. This time, gratifyingly, she found it didn’t bother her.

As Ivo continued to gape, Alaida crooked a finger at the varlet who stood by to serve them and pointed at the mazer.

“See this stays full,” she commanded. “And bring that pie back.” She turned and gave her dumbfounded groom a scathing look. “My lord husband may not like pigeon, but
I do
.”

 

A thousand questions churned through Ivo’s head as he sat bemused, watching Alaida eat her pigeon pie, but most of them amounted to the same thing. Who had kissed her? Why had she let him? Where could he find the whoreson, and how much would he scream as he died?

Some small corner of Ivo’s mind was grateful for the skill the unknown knight—he’d better be at least a knight— had taught Alaida, but the rest of him wanted to rip the man’s lungs out and fly them from the gate as pennants. Strangely, none of that fury spilled over to his thoughts of Alaida. Jealousy, yes, that some other man had tasted those lips before him, but not anger.

She was a puzzle, this wife of his, so changeable he couldn’t predict from one breath to the next what spirit possessed her. First she’d been angry, then resigned, then fearful, then outraged, and now . . . what?

Confident. That’s what it was. Confidence.

There she sat, enjoying her meal, ignoring him so thoroughly, he could be another servant. Somehow, that kiss had given her back a measure of the spirit that he’d admired in those first moments last night.

That made it a good kiss. One he could work with. One he just might parlay into a new armband.

That decided, Ivo settled back to watch his wife and figure out how best to approach her. How to woo her. How to make her laugh.

How, precisely, to make her moan.

CHAPTER 5

IGNORING THE PRICKLES of awareness that crawled over her flesh like so many mites, Alaida examined the sweets on the tray being offered her. She could see Ivo from the corner of her eye, leaning back as he studied her, his lips working in and out as though he puzzled over some deep riddle. She had seen the same look on her grandfather’s face a thousand times, over chess or merels or plans for war. They were all the same to men: games. The fact that one of their games involved violence and death mattered little.

Now she was the game. Or the battle, as the case may be.

Fine. Better he think of her as an adversary than as property. At least her ill-considered kiss had bought her that much. She selected a wedge of almond gastel and nibbled at one corner as she considered a battle plan of her own.

She’d barely swallowed the first bite when Ivo set aside the bowl he’d been nursing and rose. “It grows late, my lady. We will retire.”

So. It began.

Conscious of the laughter that rippled down the tables, Alaida put down her cake, gathered her feet and her dignity, and rose. To her relief, the women swarmed forward and swept her upstairs before she had to take the hand he offered. The men followed, laughing and joking.

“The wedding posset,” said Bôte, holding up a large drinking horn. “Ale, spiced for desire, in the horn of a bull for my lord’s manhood. Drink up, both of you.”

She took a sip to show it wasn’t poisoned and offered it to Ivo. He drank deeply while the men cheered him on, then passed the horn to Alaida, whose reluctant sip drew hoots from all.

“Ach, that’s not enough, my lady,” scolded Bôte. She stood there, hands on hips, ’til Alaida downed a good swig, then a second and a third. “There. You’ll be wanting all that and more, if I judge your lord husband rightly.”

Her words brought yet more laughter. As it trailed off, Father Theobald was pushed forward to bless the bed. In the warmth of the solar, his prayer took on the flowery wording he had avoided in the chapel. With any luck, Alaida thought, he would go on all night.

But no. When he mentioned fruitful loins for the third time, Sir Brand cleared his throat in a pointed way. Father Theobald quickly found the end of his blessing and, naming the Trinity, swung the censer to send its smoke swirling over the furs.

“Fruitful loins,” mused Wat the Reeve into the silence after they’d all crossed themselves. “I’ve always thought that sounds like something they’d serve at a feast.”

“Aye,” agreed Edric. “With butter.”

“And sauce,” added a voice from somewhere in the back, with a lewd slurp that made the men laugh and the women squeal and cover their cheeks with their hands. Poor Father Theobald looked as though he’d like to go out the roof hole with the smoke.

Alaida glanced over toward her groom and thought she might join the rising smoke as well, scorched away by what she saw. The bemused expression he’d worn earlier had vanished. His eyes burned like they had those first moments in the hall the night before, like those of some beast on its prey. Bright. Possessive.
Hungry.

Without taking his gaze off her, he passed his belt and sword to Sir Brand. “Clear the room.”

Voices rose in protest. Brand cut them off with a slash of his hand, but Oswald stepped forward. “Your pardon, my lord, but ’tis custom to see the bride put to bed.”

“Your custom, not mine. My wife’s bounty is mine alone,” said Ivo. Relief washed over Alaida, even as the men grumbled at the loss of their sport. “Her serving women may stay. The rest of you, out.”

“You heard his lordship,” rumbled Brand. “Back to your feasting. There’s plenty of good ale to ease the sting.”

The room emptied quickly, though with a great many snickers and knowing looks. Only Father Theobald lingered, looking somber again, as though he might launch into the sermon he’d neglected to give at the chapel. Something about marital temperance, no doubt. Alaida smiled encouragement.

“You, too, priest.” Brand put a hand between his shoulders and steered him toward the door with a none-too-gentle shove. “There’ll be no more need for your services tonight.”

“I’m not so certain,
messire
,” said Oswald from the doorway. He spoke loudly, so his voice would carry to those in the hall. “The father here is a fair hand in the fields. I wager he could teach a man a bit about keeping his blade sharp and his furrow straight, even though he does not plow for himself.”

Brand’s response was lost to the roar from below as he followed the others out. His departure left only Alaida’s laughing women, whose job it was to ready her for her husband. She struggled to keep her balance as merry fingers plucked away her wimple and belt and pulled her gown over her head. Someone loosed the plaits from her hair while Hadwisa and Bôte knelt to remove her shoes and hose. On the far side of the room, Ivo stripped off his cote and tossed it aside, then turned to watch as her women gathered the hem of her chainse.

That heat again. This time it reached across the gap to scorch her, as though she’d wandered too near the smith’s forge. Alaida held herself tall, determined neither to look away nor to cover herself when they stripped her.

“Dismiss your women,” said Ivo, his voice rough with desire. “I would be alone with you now.”

The women froze. Alaida stood there for an eternity, her chainse bunched to the middle of her thighs, before she found her voice.

“Leave us.” Her fingers felt clumsy as she tugged the garment away and let it fall back into place.

“But, my lady.” Hadwisa blinked like a mole at midday. “We haven’t . . . That is, you’re not . . .”

“Hush, girl,” said Bôte. “I wager his lordship knows how to undress a woman. Away with you lot.” She shooed Hadwisa and the others along, but stooped to pick up one of Alaida’s shoes and put it at the head of the bed, a reminder that she was to submit to her husband. Then she turned and gave her a fierce hug.

“Ah, my lamb.” She raised up on tiptoe to place a kiss on Alaida’s forehead. “I have slept by your side each night for nigh to a score of years, but now I give you up to your husband in good joy.” She leaned close to whisper, “Have some more posset if you’re frightened.”

“I’m not,” said Alaida firmly.

“Good. Good.” Suddenly Bôte’s face crumpled. She snatched up the corner of her headrail and blotted at the tears that dribbled down her ruddy cheeks. “Oh, my lamb, my babe, gone to wife. It seems but yesterday your lady mother put you in my arms and—”

“God’s legs, woman.
Out!
”

Ivo’s snarl startled Bôte out of her tears. She backed away and made her escape, pausing just long enough to give Alaida an encouraging smile before she slipped out the door and pulled it firmly shut. It was a heavy door, made of oak bound with iron, and it had a bar meant to keep out the most determined invader. It cost Alaida a great deal to stand there as Ivo crossed to drop that bar into place. Whatever he intended for her, she thought, no one would stop him. The walls themselves would fall before that door gave way.

When he turned back to her, he wore an odd expression, still heated, but tempered by a wry smile. “I fear I have little patience for crying women.”

“You will not be burdened with my tears,
monseigneur
.”

“We are so very pleased,
madame
,” he answered, mimicking her formality. He turned to the tall iron candlestick by the door and began pinching out the flames one by one. “Did I hear the old woman aright? You are twenty?”

“Near one and twenty.”

“So young,” he mused. “And yet old to be going to wife for the first time.”

“Very old, my lord. Ancient. You should call Father Theobald back and ask for an annulment before you find yourself saddled with a crone.”

“But such a pretty crone.” Chuckling, he pinched out another flame. “How is it you come to marry so late?”

“To my mind, it is yet too early.”

He glanced at her, one eyebrow lifted in question. “You did not wish to marry at all, then?”

“Only to you, my lord,” she said bluntly. “I was betrothed at fourteen, and willingly, to a man my grandfather chose. A brave and
honorable
man.”

Her cut had no effect. He simply kept at his candles. “Where is this paragon, that he never married you?”

“The marriage was much delayed because of warring, and he was killed before we could wed.”

“Not at table and by a lady’s knife, I hope?”

“In a melée, by a broken neck.
He
did not mock me, as you seem driven to do.”

“He likely never saw you dressed as a nun.” He moved to another candlestick and continued. “Is he the man who taught you to kiss?”

“No. Though I think he might have liked to.”

“No doubt. Then who?”

She recalled a certain May Day and a passing knight who had joined the woodland revels for an afternoon before he rode on. “No one you would know, my lord, nor anyone you’re likely to meet.”

“How unfortunate.” Another flame died between his thumb and finger. “I wish to thank him.”

“More likely have Sir Brand gut him.”

He paused over a candle, and though the smile stayed on his lips, his voice hardened. “No, I would do that myself. But only if there was more to his lessons than kissing.”

“Never fear, William gave you a virgin,” she said drily. “Besides, if there had been more, my grandfather would have gutted him for you.”

“Good.” He continued to work his way around the solar, extinguishing candles until the edges of the room receded into shadow. As he crossed to the last candlestick, his path brought him near Alaida, and as he passed, he stopped abruptly.

“It
is
you.” His fingers closed around her arms, gripping them so she couldn’t turn to face him. He inhaled deeply. “That scent has tickled my nose all evening, but I thought it was the rush-herbs. What is it?”

What was this distraction?
Brows knit in suspicion, Alaida sniffed, first the air and then, realizing what he smelled, at the sleeve of her chainse.

“Wormwood and rue . . . and tansy, I think,” she said, trying not to let on how distracted she was by the pressure of his hands. “For moths. They were on the gown I wore.”

“Ah.” He sniffed near her ear and it tickled. “I thought you might have doused yourself in some strange perfume in an effort to drive me away.”

“I had not thought of it. Would it work?”

“No.” Bending to the curve of her neck, he inhaled deeply once more. “I am not a moth.”

The words warmed her skin as he breathed them out. She turned her head away to escape the heat, but that only exposed more skin to him, skin over which he brushed a kiss. The contact was like steel to flint, and the sparks it produced scattered over her skin, spreading until she had to dig her toes into the rug to stop them. He pressed another kiss to the spot, then released her and stepped away, leaving only the swirl of chill air to take his place. A moment later, the bed creaked as he sat and began taking off his boots.

The first boot plopped to the floor. “If Geoffrey has done his job, there is a small gift for you on the tray.”

More distraction.
He truly was playing some game with her, trying to put her off guard with these feints, though to what end she wasn’t sure. Chary but curious, she shook off the last of the sparks and sidled over to the table. There, between the oil lamp and the horns of ale and posset, lay a fat leather pouch. Coins jingled as she hefted it.

“Silver?” She let the purse fall back to the table with a thump that echoed her disgust. “I am not a whore, my lord, that you must pay for access to my bed.”

“I never buy what is already mine.” The second boot hit the wall as he tossed it aside in exasperation. “By the saints, woman, must everything be a battle with you? I said it is a gift. Ten shillings, to replace what you gave as alms today.”

“Oh.” She sagged a little, the wind out of her sails. “I didn’t think you . . . But of course. Sir Ari told you.”

“He did.”