Gayle Eden Read online

There were a thousand things she meant to say, but what she blurted was, “Why do you shroud yourself, always?”

  “Because I must.” He rose slowly and said more abrupt, “The dawn comes swift. Night will grow colder. Randulf has provided a bed for you in the wagon.”

  Since he had been much more than she expected or anticipated, Illara obeyed. She stood and pulled her fur around her shoulders and went to the wagon. He was to the side of her now, and as she climbed in and lay on the fur, she discerned Pagan was still there.

  Illara murmured, “I have skill. I can handle dagger and sword, most weapons. But they were in my trunks and I was numb with grief and not expecting…”

  “The accusers do not always get the last word, Illara,” his voice sounded distant as though he were thinking. “It does not matter in what form the wronged are justified…vengeance is always a flame in the dark, it consumes those who breed their lies in it.”

  She had the cloak over her, and lay looking up at the hide covering. “I care more for freedom. Lies become ones prison—ones sentence--where we are consigned to pay for that which we are innocent of. In the truth I have spoken to you, I have my freedom.”

  Some sound akin to a bitter laugh seemed to float from him. “Aye, milady. We all have our prison. However, even in that, aye, we can find power. Rest, sleep, there are no more confessions needed. Now you owe truth and vows—to only one man.”

  Himself, Pagan de Chevel, Illara thought, closing her eyes. Those vows made him her lord and master.

  Chapter Two

  Dawn came swift. There was only time for her to see to her needs, gulp a bit of water and chew bread. Back on the loaded wagon, Illara was conscious of her husband, no matter how distant he rode. His words to her the night before and his lack of condemnation made her swear to herself that Pagan be hideous or worse, she would not make him regret championing her.

  That dark figure passed speedily by them when they were nearing a village, and though he was before the wagon, his fearsome figure on the pitch horse appeared as if carving their way. She still witnessed the eyes of the people round in fear, and though a few brave lads stood close to the road in awe, most, from the Smith to the goodwives, crossed themselves and ran to bolt their doors.

  As they exited the village, she saw a stone arc though the air and strike Pagan in the shoulder. He gave no sign at it, just as he ignored curses and the wrath of God shouted down on his head. All behind his back, of course.

  That night they camped on land apparently connected to Dunnewicke. Illara noted the scarred and twisted trees, the blemish of fires, and asked of it.

  Randulf, who had set camp, answered, “It was once a picturesque forest but was set to fire. It will take years to recover.”

  Given that her husband stayed beyond camp, she did not get to ask him personally, and besides that, Illara sensed a particular mood now, something heavy and dark in the air and even in Randulf, who wasted no time bedding himself down under the wagon.

  * * * *

  Frost blanketed the land on their morning rise. A mist of silvery white coated everything, so that when they reached the old remains of the city. Its half-tumbling walls, she could distinguish it from the contrast, and see too, on a rise beyond the old cobbled streets, a towering castle with great wings and round towers. Only upon passing the gatehouse did she realize it too was scarred and pocked.

  The jingle of the harness and clop of hooves obscured any other clamor. She strained to see Pagan’s entry first, through a gatehouse, several more doors beyond the main one with slots known as murder holes in the structure.

  He moved onward to the left, and Randulf turned their wagon to the right and the Keep. The main entry doors were on a second level, flanked by two sets of stone stairs. Anyone approaching from the courtyard, left or right, could access them. The doors were thick iron, high and arched, as had been most of the windows she could make out.

  Randulf halted the wagon. Illara climbed down, letting her hood fall back. Noticing the fog lifting, she saw both guards scattered about and other armed men, several craftsmen and servants back in the inner courtyard.

  It had indeed been massive, not just the castle itself but the distance from inner courtyards, lower wall, to outer defense walls, which rose twenty feet and would have at one time encircled a great city below. Still, it towered, and the dampness on the stone made it look blackish.

  There was a hollow sound above. She glanced up to see the Great hall doors open and a woman stepped out. She was dressed in a black wool gown and wore a sooty scarf on her head.

  Randulf pulled her out of her muse by saying, “You may go on, milady, and there will be someone to see to you. I will have everything unpacked and see that your trunks are brought in.”

  “Thank you, Randulf.” She glanced at him before slowly walking toward the stairs and ascending them. The closer she came to the woman, the more she could see of a visage, perhaps in her early fifties, a not unhandsome face, though clearly marked with troubles. She met the woman’s smoke gray eyes upon reaching the landing.

  “Welcome, my lady. I am Lylie.”

  “Thank you for your welcome, Lylie. Please call me Illara.”

  She followed as the woman turned and led her inside to a massive Great hall. Arched beams braced overhead and huge chandeliers between them that swaged down on chains, fitted with large candles. There were tables and benches, a clean stone floor and large hearth, which burned brightly.

  Though she glanced right and left, also noting stairs and archways, a closed off west wing heavily bolted, Illara, as she opened her cloak, noted the riches in the gold and silver plates lined over the mantle, and in the bowls and trays sitting on the white clothed tables.

  Walking toward the hearth, she glanced at Lylie, who held her hand out for the cloak.

  The woman said, “The master sent word ahead and the solar above is ready. But if it pleases you, I will bring food and something warm to drink.”

  “My thanks. Yes.”

  She stood by the fire after Lylie hung her cloak on a peg, seeing as the woman turned back through some entry, the figure of another female servant, who was passing behind a screen before going about. Counting among the riches; tapestries, weapons, and no doubt Tourney prizes tucked in niches, Illara still had the feeling of some violence having taken place to and in the castle. Like the land, it bore the scars in its strength, and bore them with, if not in spite of, some attempt to destroy it.

  Lylie entered on silent feet and set a silver plate and goblet at the end of the Lord’s Table. She stood silently by and waited until Illara sat herself.

  There was succulent meat and herbed winter vegetables under the dome, as well as nutty bread. Illara gave her thanks then said as Lylie made to leave, “Please, sit. Tell me about this castle.”

  The woman did not sit, but went to stand by the fire. “There is no telling of Dunnewicke without telling of the family, and the master alone can approve or disapprove repeating it.”

  Illara ate, she drank rich dark wine, and murmured something in response, though she was curious.

  She did not doubt there were dungeons under the castle. It was immense. She did not doubt either that the tale would be violent. It did not seem odd to her that such a dark figure as Pagan dwelled here.

  Finished with her meal, she arose. The woman was clearing the dish and cup as the doors opened and Randulf came in, followed by two young men dressed in long cloaks and leather boots. They carried her trunks up a set of stairs. She followed them, noting that the plaster walls had been added at a much later date than the castle had been built.

  There were two arched chambers before the main solar was reached, one was familiar to her from her childhood, the tiles likely having come from Arab countries, as their designs were familiar too, those being used to line a bathing pool with copper spigots. Designed like the open spas. A faint scent of herbs and spices hung in the air. She saw great carved candleholders and incense burners, as well as baskets flowin
g with herbs and soaps.

  The next chamber had the beginnings of a library, something rare in English castles, but identified by the shelves and large scrolled tables and chairs. A hearth graced it, as well as hunting tapestries. It was a masculine chamber, but the sort she had once been at home in, as her mother was oft reading books and scrolls, teaching her from them.

  The men exited the main solar and bowed to her on their way out. She was intending to question Randulf, but he appeared in a hurry, and she supposed he was busy.

  Entering the rooms that would be hers, Illara stood for a moment, struck dumb by the lavish beauty of it, and finding her eyes stinging as she recognized hues and patterns that would have fit in their fortress in Egypt. Here, even with the stone walls, were the warm colors of sun and sand, of sea and fiery sunsets. The bed was massive and covered with fur, tasseled pillows in bold crimson and gold stripes at the head. The windows were large and under them ran a half moon shape seat, padded with leather, and cushions were scattered about.

  Walking further in, she eyed a mirror with decorated iron on the edge, full length, massive, reflecting the bed and windows beyond. There were rich carpets on the floors; in sienna and red, gold and warm bronze. A series of candlesticks rose from their scrolled bases around the chamber, inlaid with gold and made of cedar. Her trunks had been placed at the end of the bed, but there were other elaborate ones in one corner, and when she looked up, noting the scroll work on the plaster ceiling, she saw the delicate designs of leaf and pomegranates, figs and exotic birds.

  She longed to bathe and shed the heavy traveling garments, but first Illara walked to the window, putting her knee on the bench and opening the shutters to look out. There was a courtyard in the back, leading to what must have been hedges and gardens, and though not full, a long square pond that would stock fish, decorated on each corner with lions holding massive urns of now dormant vines. There were benches and statues, the guards she noted, walking the walls, not realizing that until then that she had feared no one would live in the mysterious knight’s castle but the two of them.

  She allowed her gaze to swing left, making out the back of the round tower where Pagan had ridden. The barracks were in that direction. On the right was a chapel. It became apparent that though the main fortress had been huge, there had been more added to it over time. Still, as a faint gold light glowed in the tower windows, she wondered what Pagan expected of her here, wondered how a man who shrouded himself expected them to be man and wife?

  Closing the shutters, Illara went to her trunks. She opened one and felt under the lid for the key to the other. In starling castle, it had not been unlocked and thankfully undisturbed. After lifting out a low waist winter gown, of green velvet, she closed the lid, unlocked the other, and went down on her knees to sift through it.

  Here were her father’s gifts to her over the years. An elaborate dagger and sword, a handsome saddle and tucked beneath were her leather breeches and shirt, a pair of knee length riding boots. The scents brought back her best and most painful memories. There were two other trunks, one with gifts her mother gave her, another larger one, which held all of the life she had known with them.

  She sighed and found a small satchel with her silver comb and a corked bottle of jasmine oil. She proceeded to the bathing chambers, hearing sounds below; scrapes, faint voices, while she pulled the screens around the pool and started the taps, so that water from furnaces on the upper floor somewhere began filling the pool.

  Illara found soft toweling and a cloth, a bowl of soaps and after sprinkling herbs on the water, she began to undress. The day was passing, and it had never lightened to any degree, so she lit a series of candles around the room, finding the amber glow helped warm the hues in the tiles and lessen the vast feel of the chamber.

  The steam rose, but with the chill in the air, the heat would be welcome. She stripped and lay the garments aside with her boots and hose. She waded into the bathing pool, finding that the depth descended on one end, so that it could be filled to her breasts. Knowing how precious water was, she filled it only to her knees, and sat down in it with her soap, first submerging her body completely, then rising to wash her hair and rinsing it, before washing her body.

  After the journey the water felt so pleasant, that she lay there half propped against the side, watching the light play on the screens when done. The trickle from the spout echoed, joined by an occasional hiss from the candles. When the ring of spurs sounded, Illara glanced around in panic a moment, before realizing that when whoever it was saw the screens they would turn and leave.

  Yet her back pressed more against the rim and muscles tensed as a massive shadow passed the first screen, stopped and turned his head toward the pool.

  Illara knew it was Pagan. Part of her anxiety was suspended, because Pagan was not armored. His cloak a lighter one. Though the screen blocked details, she could see, thanks to the candles, enough to note waves of long hair and just the hint of a human face, strongly outlined. A brawn laden male form dressed in shirt and snug leather breeches, boots with crisscrossed straps, studded and spurred. Pagan was the tallest man she had ever seen.

  Her skin chilled under the water with anxiety—given his size, and his perpetual shrouding, but her lips parted and her breathing seemed amplified, because she wondered what he would do. Moreover, she wondered what she would do, when it came time to submit to her vows.

  “Did you find all that you needed?” His deep voice hung in the thick air.

  Illara wet her lips again. “Yes. My thanks.”

  Still Pagan lingered and though his gaze could not see her, she felt that he could.

  “I will leave you to your privacy and rest afterwards.”

  “Wait...” she called as he turned, watching him stop, his profile now showing. Illara wondered if she was mad, but heard herself ask, “What happened here, to the castle and family?”

  His body stiffened, and she saw it as if ropes were tightened about him. In rough tones, more rasping than his already normal speech, Pagan supplied, “The family was accused of treason, and two of them… sent to the tower. The castle razzed and burned, along with the lands, by those who believed such lies...”

  “Lies?”

  “Aye,” he spat low. “Lies.” Then, he seemed to shake himself. Pagan went on in a colder tone. “The servants were abused and any of the blood—punished—sentenced to death.”

  “But Randulf said….they were your blood.”

  “None else, outside himself and Lylie know of the connection. But aye. I am their blood.”

  “How is it that you—”

  “Survived death?”

  She felt her stomach tense. “Yes.”

  “Perhaps I didn’t,” he murmured, but said on, “In the fires of hell I made a deal with the devil. Is that not what you have heard of Pagan de Chevel?”

  A shiver worked down her spine. Illara answered softly, “What one hears is seldom the truth.”

  “Aye, Madame. But what one knows, can often be more frightening.”

  She tried to dissect that, but said, “I am a de Chevel now. If this is to be our home, and you my husband, as you say, I must only answer to one Lord. I am prepared for the truth from him.”

  Pagan shook his head but said only, “Your loyalty and your determination will be tested in the future, Illara of Thresford. Though you think yourself ostracized before, you will find few now, as my wife, who will meet your eyes or give you welcome. Even were I not legend or their mythical beast, this castle and those who inhabit it, are said to be friends of evil.”

  She had discerned that before they exited Starlings lands. “It matters only what you think.”

  His head lifted and she saw him look toward the screen before he said simply, “Aye,” then turned and slowly departed.

  Illara released a long breath and waded out of the pool to dry. Instead of donning the gown, she wrapped the linen around her and went to the chamber, fetching instead a supple, long sleeved flannel under
gown from the trunks.

  She sat on a fur by the fire while her hair dried and she worked the comb through it. Her mind was on the castle, its master, and the dark past. She had no friends here, in this land either. She had some idea how Pagan must feel, to be master and yet not lord, in the true sense. It occurred to her that his life must be a lonely one. Yet Pagan had Randulf, obviously, and his castle woman, who seemed loyal enough.

  Placing the comb on a bench, she lay on her side there, looking into the flames, musing on what sort of life she would have with a man who spoke to her through shrouds and screens, a fierce man, a skilled knight and indeed—a legend.

  * * * *

  Randulf poured another pail of steaming water over Pagan’s head and then tossed him a slab of soap. He sat down on a rough-hewn bench. While his brother bathed, Randulf scanned around, having disliked these lower chambers for many reasons, mostly because it reminded him of his years of imprisonment.

  Having bathed before Pagan, he lifted a square of flannel over his brawny shoulders and muttered, “If you are going to make a habit of bathing down here, the least we could do is build a fire next time.”

  “The water here is deeper.”

  “And cold enough to freeze ice on my arse.”

  A faint low laugh escaped before Pagan went under the water and subsequently emerged.

  Randulf said, “You’ve just about finished the south tower, mayhap we could use the bathing chambers there next time.”

  “You are growing old and soft, brother.”

  Randulf’s lips twisted slightly, “You are two years beyond me. Moreover, it is not softness that causes such moaning, but rather that my balls have yet to emerge after that bathing. At least for you, I heated a pail.”

  “And you have my thanks.” Pagan had stayed in the shadows but now waded close to the torch light, which spread over the bench Randulf sat on, and half the cistern. Though his body was likewise scarred, Randulf winced mentally at the view of them on his brother before Pagan bent and scooped up toweling, wrapping it around his hips. He stepped out and was in the shadows once more while he dried and dressed.