Immortal Champion (14 page)
“’Struth. She sent me to fetch the woman to fix her hair, but I could not find her. I thought to steal a moment before I go back.”
“Avoiding a scolding, eh? Has the lady developed a sharp tongue? I remember her as quick-tongued, but sweet-tempered.”
“She is for the greatest part. I watch because it pleases me to see the hall fill up—though ’tis less interesting now the tourney is over.”
“So you watch
all
the men.”
all
the men.”
“All of them and none of them.”
“But no one in particular?” There was an odd quality in his voice, and Lucy studied him a moment before answering.
“No. No one holds my special attention,
monsire
.”
monsire
.”
“How unfortunate for the men of Raby.” Straightening, he reached out to tuck the edge of Lucy’s head rail back where it had fallen forward. As he pulled back, his fingers grazed her cheek. “Unfortunate indeed. Perhaps that will change someday soon. By your leave.”
He bowed and sauntered off, leaving Lucy to stare after him and wonder what had gotten into the water, and who it was going to make go mad next.
By the way her pulse was racing, it might be she.
ELEANOR MUST HAVE
convinced her father, because the next night after supper, they danced.
convinced her father, because the next night after supper, they danced.
Gunnar had forgotten how much pleasure there was in dancing. The music. The jollity. The women.
Especially the women.
He hadn’t touched so many women in one evening in all his accursed life. Granted, the touching was just hands and the occasional brush of veil or skirt as they glided past, but that was more than he usually enjoyed, and best of all, the touches were given freely. Most times, he had to pay for a woman to touch him, to buy her with a measure of silver or at the very least a sweetly spoken lie. These women touched him for no reason at all beyond the dance, and every one of them seemed more desirable than the last.
But most desirable of all was Eleanor.
His senses were full of her, alive to every movement and laugh and flick of her braids, even when she was on the far side of the hall. Yet as he trod heavily through the few simple hayes and round dances he’d picked up over the years, she moved in and out of his grasp exactly like the others, giving so little sign of what had passed the night before that he began to doubt his recollection. A dream. He must’ve fallen asleep for a few moments and dreamed it.
But then she passed by in a promenade, and her eyes met his and flickered unwittingly toward the solar screen, and he knew. ‘Twas no dream at all. She had come down in the night.
And he’d had to walk away.
She likely thought he’d spurned her, when in truth he’d only left because he had to, lest he change right there in front of her. Cursed sun. Why couldn’t it go down and stay down?
He had to fix this.
The music carried her away on the next beat, but when it carried her back, he was ready. He took her hand and led her around the circle.
“I had a dream last night,” he said they turned into the center. “Near dawn.”
Her eyes widened slightly, then crinkled at the corners as she understood. “Did you?”
“Aye.” They faced each other and stepped back and forward. “In it, I was visited by a sprite, a wisp of cloud taking the form of a maid.”
“Most strange.” She feigned disinterest, glancing around the hall as though searching for someone.
“Most wondrous,” he countered softly, and watched her blush.
“This dream,” she posed a moment later as they turned shoulder-to-shoulder with each other. “Have you had it before?”
“No, my lady,” he said as they wheeled around each other, clapping. “But I hope it visits me again.”
She spun away, circled Henry Percy, and came back to him.
“Earlier,” he said. He fell out of rhythm and bowed half-a-beat behind the other men.
She looked up, startled, as he caught up and they touched shoulders again. “What?”
“I said, I hope my dream finds me earlier in the night, so that I may fully . . .” It was his turn now to fly off and circle her sister Margaret. He left his words hanging till he came back to Eleanor. ”. . . enjoy it before I must rise and ride away.”
“Oh.”
Another bow, another courtesy, and she passed forward to Percy while Margaret came up from behind to join him. They didn’t come back together again before the final chord ended the song.
The master of the dance announced a turn Gunnar didn’t know, and he quickly made his excuses and headed for the cup of wine he’d left sitting on a table. Dancing was difficult enough; playing this odd game with Eleanor while wrestling the music had all but drained him. He emptied the cup in one draught, had a boy refill it, and carried it over to where Lord Lumley and one of the earl’s aging retainers studied a nard board.
Lumley looked up, grinning. “Made your escape at last, eh, Sir Gunnar?”
“Yes, my lord.” He tipped his head toward the couples leaping and gamboling to the music. “I make a poor March hare.”
“You’re too big for it, is why,” said Lumley. “That is a dance best suited to young, skinny lads like Percy there. There’s no dignity to it or them.”
Gunnar turned to watch. Henry Percy did indeed bound along with an energetic grace many of the others lacked, but it was his partner that caught Gunnar’s eye:
Eleanor
. Cheeks glowing with good spirits, she danced and clapped the time, with eyes for no one but Percy. A sudden font of jealousy bubbled up, souring Gunnar’s stomach.
Eleanor
. Cheeks glowing with good spirits, she danced and clapped the time, with eyes for no one but Percy. A sudden font of jealousy bubbled up, souring Gunnar’s stomach.
He started to turn away and spotted Eleanor at her father’s side. “What?” He looked back and forth, sorting it out in his head. “Oh, that’s Lucy with Percy.”
“Thought it was Lady Eleanor, did you?” The retainer chuckled. “Most of us have been caught in the same error, sir. Especially when Lucy wears one of her lady’s cast-off dresses.”
Gunnar shook his head. “I can tell them apart up close, but from a distance . . .”
“Lady Anne once demanded that the earl require each of them to wear different colors, for that very reason.” Lumley captured a piece and waved it beneath the retainer’s nose. “There. I have you now, Fitzhugh.”
Gunnar watched a little longer, then found a spot off to the side where he could watch and be left alone. That lasted only until Eleanor swooped by to urge him to rejoin the dancing, dragging along one of the fostering lads to blunt any appearance of impropriety. Gunnar obliged for those dances he knew, trying to take a position where they would meet in passing, where he might touch her.
The dancing went on into the small hours. As the last tune wound down and Eleanor came around to say her good nights, she was stifling a yawn behind her hand.
“You look tired, m’lady.”
“Aye, and ’twill be a short night. My lord father does not hold with letting us sleep beyond the usual hour no matter how late we stay awake.”
“That comes from dealing with men-at-arms. Left to their own, they would drink and wench all night, then sleep until Nones.”
“I would be happy if he would give us till Terce.” She yawned again. “Dawn is not far away. There will be little time for that dream of yours to find you.”
“There will be other nights.”
Eleanor glanced away, her forehead wrinkling in thought. “Perhaps. Dreams are odd and inconstant things. They do not always return when you command them. Sometimes, they do not return at all.”
So she was rethinking her boldness. His chest tightened. There was much between them that needed the kind of privacy that could be found only in the dark of midnight and he very much wanted to urge her to come to him. But Lucy was right there, eyes sharp despite the late hour. Did they share a bed? Had she noticed her lady gone last night? It struck him that he should have been courting Lucy’s goodwill, as well, in order to have access to Eleanor. Ah, shite. He wasn’t very good at this.
“If this dream never came again,” he said carefully, “I would still be thankful I had the one glimpse of it, but I hope it will return when the time is right.”
Eleanor kept her eyes averted, so he couldn’t see what was in them. “God’s rest to you, Sir Gunnar.”
“And God’s rest, my lady.” He bowed to her, then to her watchful cousin. “And to you, Maid Lucy. I hope you sleep well.”
And soundly.
CHAPTER 8
The Welsh Marches
“I’LL GIVE YOU
a mark for it, sir.”
a mark for it, sir.”
“The gold alone is worth twice that.” Ari plucked the heavy gold chalice out of the smith’s hand and held it up to tap his fingernail on the big amethyst in the bottom. “And that doesn’t account for the drunkstone.”
“That could be a piece of church glass for all I know of stones, good knight. And the gold itself is old gold. It may not be pure.”
He was right about the age—Brand had found the chalice and a pair of equally ancient cloak pins while searching for their amulets—but that didn’t make the smith right about the value.
“Assay it,” said Ari. “Your fire is hot.”
“I would, sir, but I don’t have the proper waters. I ran out and haven’t yet been to town to buy more. But I can give you one and three.”
Ari snatched up the cloth and started wrapping the cup to go back into his scrip. Curse the vision that had led him to stop here, in the hinterlands of the Welsh border, at the house of a country silversmith. It was a wasted effort. “I’ll go on to Shrewsbury, as I planned. A proper goldsmith will be able to tell the worth of the thing.”
The smith, seeing his chance at a tidy profit about to ride off, chewed on his lip and hemmed a little. “I do have a touchstone. Let me see it again, if you would, sir.”
He had him.
Ari fought a grin as he unwrapped the chalice again. The smith pulled out a bit of slate and some tiny pins of gold of differing purities. He scratched the pins over the stone, then made a mark with the foot of the chalice. He and Ari both bent over the stone to see which pin mark best matched that left by the cup.
Ari fought a grin as he unwrapped the chalice again. The smith pulled out a bit of slate and some tiny pins of gold of differing purities. He scratched the pins over the stone, then made a mark with the foot of the chalice. He and Ari both bent over the stone to see which pin mark best matched that left by the cup.
“You see?” said Ari, vindicated. “Pure. And for doubting me, the price goes up. Two marks and six shillings.”
“Ach!” The man’s mouth opened and closed a few times, then he put the chalice back on the scale. As he checked the weights, a dark-haired lad of about six years came in and peered into the pan.
“That looks very old.” The boy scratched his head.
“I was just telling this good knight that very thing,” said the smith. He bent over a wax tablet and scribed a few marks. “I can do one and six.”
“You begin to provoke me, man. Two and two.”
“One and eight.”
Ari shook his head. “You know very well I can do better in town.”
“Perhaps, sir, but it would cost you most of a day to ride there and back.”
“I have all the time in the world.”
The smith made a face and bent over his figuring again, counting on the fingers of one hand as he wrote. The boy took a step closer to Ari. “Have you killed anyone?”
“Mind your manners, boy. He’s a noble knight and your better,” said the smith without looking up.
“Sorry,
m’sir
.” The boy bobbed his head in a half bow. “Have you killed anyone, sir?”
m’sir
.” The boy bobbed his head in a half bow. “Have you killed anyone, sir?”
“I have,” said Ari. “But only when I had to. What is your name, boy?”
“Morvran, sir.”
“Well, then, Morvran, are you Master Dafydd’s son or his apprentice?”
“His son, sir. But I go to apprentice after harvest.” He dug at his head again. Lice, no doubt. “I have something old, too.”
“Don’t bother the gentleman,” mumbled the smith.
“He is no bother,” said Ari. “What do you have that’s old?”
The boy dug his finger under his collar and fished out a leather cord, at the end of which appeared a small bit of tarnished metal. A wink of red caught Ari’s eye, and he looked closer.
His heart began to thud in his ears.
By the gods.
Could it be right here, on a child’s neck? “Let me see that more closely, Morvran.”
By the gods.
Could it be right here, on a child’s neck? “Let me see that more closely, Morvran.”
The child assessed him a moment, then pulled the cord over his head and lowered his treasure into Ari’s open palm.
Ah.
Ah.
“’Tis a dragon, sir. See the red eye?”
“I do see it.” Ari rubbed a thumb over the little garnet and then over the empty socket next to it. Blind in one eye, Gunnar had always said. He’d lost the stone someplace in the oat fields while plowing, long before they’d sailed.
Thank you, Odin.
Tears pricked Ari’s eyes, and his throat tightened so that he could barely speak. “But this is no dragon. It is a bull.”
Thank you, Odin.
Tears pricked Ari’s eyes, and his throat tightened so that he could barely speak. “But this is no dragon. It is a bull.”
“A bull,” said the boy, clearly disappointed. “Are you certain, sir?”
“I am. I have a friend whose sign is a bull very much like it. How did you come by it?”
“I found it a while back.” He glanced at his father, who looked up.
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